Mr & Mr Rinch
by QueenOfTheUniverse
Summary: John knows there's something going on, the way Harold's been avoiding him like the plague. But Harold refuses to talk about it. When their latest number has them going to a couple's retreat, will it bring them closer together, or tear them further apart? Includes: possible romantic feelings, spying, group therapy sessions, and Action/Adventure. Pairing: John/Harold.
1. Chapter 1

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 1 (John Reese): Chapter 1

A/N: This is set late season three with the construct of an early episode that features John and Harold.

* * *

Hope warred with the sinking feeling in John's heart as he walked up the stairs of the library, inhaling the familiar scent of musty books. As he rounded the corner, he should have heard Finch typing on his keyboard. He hadn't realized the sound was so comforting until it had been awhile since he'd heard it. But as had been the case for some time, everything was quiet.

The sinking feeling won out, then gave over to worry. Again. His stomach twisted into knots too tight to unravel. Where was Finch? Why couldn't he answer John's simple questions the last time they'd talked on the phone?

The gate was open. Hope returned full force, trying to explode in John's chest. Was he...? Yes, there was Finch, standing beside the table, studying something small in the palm of his hand.

"Where the hell have you been, Finch? I've been worried about you."

Finch jumped, then relaxed. "Where do you think I've been? I haven't left the library."

"I've been here multiple times in the last two weeks, but you haven't been. Your phone calls have been very brief. And you won't talk to me. What's going on?"

"Nothing. Everything's fine. I'm sorry I worried you."

Finch was the most frustrating man John had ever known. They were supposed to trust each other with their lives, and yet he knew Finch was lying to him. But all he could do was take it in stride. Finch was the one who had given him the job, after all. What right did he have to complain? Finch must have his reasons, whatever they were. Maybe he would tell John what was wrong if he could give him enough space and time. Maybe.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding toward Finch's hand, hoping to get them back on firmer ground.

"Rings, Mr. Reese."

"They look an awful lot like..."

"Wedding rings. I know."

"You know someone getting married, Finch?"

"I hope you don't mind... but... you are. And I couldn't find anyone else to sit in as your better half so..."

"So... what?"

"I'll be the one going as your better half this time."

A bright smile cracked across John's face. "Oh, Finch," he put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "You look nervous." He planted a kiss on Finch's sweaty temple.

Finch jumped again and looked up at him, his eyes wide in shock. "I just wasn't sure you'd be okay with the arrangement."

Why on earth was Finch so jumpy?

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

"You might not agree once I tell you where we're going."

"I'm an ex-CIA agent. I can handle anything."

"What about getting in touch with your feelings? And getting romantically reacquainted with your husband of two seconds?"

"Right. Maybe someone else should go and I can be... I don't know... a bellhop... or something. Where are the others anyway?"

"How should I know? Ms. Groves came in and whisked Ms. Shaw away earlier this afternoon and wouldn't say what they were up to."

"Figures."

"Here, put this on." Finch smirked and handed him one of the gold and silver striped bands.

"I think you just asked me to marry you. Shouldn't you be doing the honors?"

Finch turned away, as he slid the other onto his own left ring finger.

"These are not just wedding rings. They are equipped with GPS that can be tracked via our phones. The itinerary for the weekend-"

"Wait, we're going to be together for the whole weekend?"

"It's a couple's retreat, so yes. It's a four day weekend. The itinerary involves a lot of outdoor hiking and other things and I didn't want us to get separated without being able to find each other again. We'll be in a group of twelve couples, all trying to get back together with their spouses. This could be heaven..."

"Or it could be hell."

Finch sat down at his computer and started typing something. "Well, that's that."

Four days to figure out what was going on with Finch. John could handle that. Right?

"What's our cover story? Who are we supposed to be?"

"Mr. and Mr. Rinch." Finch pointed him toward fresh drivers licences.

"Mr. and Mr. Rinch?"

"What? I thought it was cute."

John snorted.

"You are an accountant and I'm a librarian for an obscure research library. We met at work."

"No surprise there. We sound boring."

"Which was the point, Mr. Reese. We also have a dog named Bear, and a lake house in New Hampshire."

"We do? Wait, why am I surprised? My husband's loaded."

Finch gave him a brief smile. "We don't have kids so we have a small bit of savings that let's us splurge on occasion."

"Only a small bit?"

"Librarian, remember? Just because I may have a Master's degree doesn't mean I make a lot of money. Nor do you, as an accountant, for that matter."

"Do you? Have a Master's degree?"

"I can't tell you that and you know it."

"I thought married couples told each other everything."

"Not always. Which might be the reason we're going to this retreat in the first place."

"But we at least know we're keeping secrets from each other, so why do we need to air them in public?"

"We don't. But Lucy Pressfield, our latest number, probably does. She'll be attending with her husband, Shawn. I'll tell you what I know about them along the way, though it isn't much yet." Finch gestured toward a couple of duffle bags while he shut down his computer. "I took the liberty of buying you appropriate clothes. You may want to change before we go."

"Great. Where is Bear, anyway?"

"Detective Fusco has him for the weekend."

* * *

Arriving at the hotel, a perky woman in a slinky red dress met them in the lobby. She was blonde and her smile was huge, showing off her pearl white teeth.

"And you must be John and Harold Rinch! Welcome!"

"Um, yes, hi. And you are?" Finch asked.

"Oh, silly me! I'm Chris Hartwicke. Don, my husband, is my co-leader."

"Oh, yes, nice to meet you. I've read so much about you!"

While Finch became extra friendly, John kept quiet, nodded, shook her hand, and kept an eye on their surroundings.

In the far corner there was a couple having a heated argument in whispers. She was wearing a blue dress with purple heels and her hair had been blown out as if she were still in the 80's. He wore a pair of grey slacks and a pale blue dress shirt. Were they trying to match?

"Well, let's get you checked in. The sooner you're unpacked, the sooner you can join everyone for drinks at the bar before dinner tonight."

John tuned back in as the woman, Chris, eyed him up and down. "I do hope you brought more comfortable clothing, Mr. Rinch. You're going to be doing a lot of activities this weekend I doubt you'll want to be doing in a suit!"

John choked at her words. Finch blushed a deep red. He nodded again. "Of course."

He just hadn't wanted to change out of his suit until it was necessary. He'd figured this would make it look even more like he was a boring workaholic forced on this trip by his husband after a long day at the office.

Finch had already changed into a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. The look was somehow creepy on him. Already John missed the wool suits.

"Did you see our number?" Finch asked when they were alone in the elevator.

John shook his head. "No. But there was another couple in the corner arguing. You sure you got the right number?"

"I'm sure. She should be in the room next to ours for easier surveillance."

"I love it when you know my needs before I even have to tell you. You're getting better at this, Finch."

"Check the bottom of your bag, you should find all your surveillance equipment there as well."

"I was right. You are getting better at this."

* * *

When they arrived for drinks at the bar, the place was crowded, yet everyone was quiet, radiating an awkward vibe.

"I think we missed something," Finch muttered under his breath.

"You think? That's our number over there and she's glaring daggers at the guy across from her."

Lucy was sitting beside her husband, Shawn, who's eyes were wide with shock. She kept her arms crossed and her body rigid. Across from her, another man glared back at her, his mouth set in a firm, straight, line. John recognized him as the man in the pale blue shirt arguing with his wife when he and Finch had first arrived.

Together, he and Finch found two remaining seats with another couple who introduced themselves as Drew and Selina Copek.

"What happened?" Finch asked, pointing toward the glaring duo.

Selina leaned in, ready to dish the gossip. "You wouldn't believe the row! The best we've been able to figure out, the guy she's looking at, that's Mike Townsend, her ex husband. He brought his new wife, Barbara. No one's happy about this."

"I can't imagine they would be. Where's Barbara now?"

"Out for a walk. She's pissed."

Chris bustled over then. "Harold, John, do you mind if I seat you with the Pressfields for dinner? They shouldn't be sitting with the Townsends tonight."

"Oh sure, No problem."

Finch might have been awkward at times, but he was a lot better at making idle conversation than John, which allowed John to survey the room and its occupants. Most of the couples were sitting far apart from each other. A foot, at least. Or it read in their body language, as wives faced away from their husbands, hands clasped in their laps. And it wasn't that they were talking to someone else. No one was saying anything.

"Okay everyone, time for dinner! This way!" Chris ushered them from the hotel bar into a smaller room, where several round tables had been set up for dinner.

With nine other couples present, John wonder where the final two were. Hadn't Finch said there were supposed to be twelve total, not counting Chris and Don Hartwicke?

Barbara Townsend joined them ten minutes later, a deep frown burning a hole in her face.

A pale faced man dressed to blend in with the beige wall behind him, stepped up to the podium. " Hello everyone, my name is Don Hartwicke, and I'll be your co-leader on this venture!" he said with mustered enthusiasm. "Before we begin, I just wanted to let you know there are two more couples joining us. Alexis and Genevieve Winters-Brown and Robyn and Marjorie Borich, are traveling together and had some car trouble along the way. They will be arriving later tonight. You'll get a chance to meet them at breakfast tomorrow morning. And without further ado, here's my wife, Chris!"

Chris began the official welcoming speech. "Don and I have been where you all are right now," she said. "And we climbed up out of the darkness together and lived to tell the tale. But it wasn't just one thing that saved us and our marriage. It was many things. This weekend, we will help you accomplish those things together with your spouse, to rekindle your love for each other, to help you become better teammates for each other..."

John tuned her out again and concentrated on blue jacking Lucy Pressfield's cell phone, then watching everyone else interact. But they were all glued to Chris's opening speech.

When she was done and they were allowed to eat, the introductions at their table began. They were joined by Lucy and Shawn Pressfield, a graphic designer and software developer, and the Copeks from the bar. Drew was a car salesman specializing in sports cars and Selina was a professional home decorator. The conversation was boring.

John was grateful no one asked him about his job once the word "accountant" left his lips. Finch used a few large words pertaining to the supposed research the library specialized in, and everyone else's sudden interest in his job fell away like old, peeling wallpaper.

When Finch ventured to ask why they were at the retreat, he was met with stares.

"Oh, well, I'm sure you'll find out in our group therapy tomorrow morning. Let's talk of other, more fun, things tonight," Selina suggested.

Group therapy? Shit. John would be so screwed if he had to sit through that. Even if it meant gathering good intel about Lucy. Would they make him say something? What would he say?

Finch grasped his hand under the table and gave it a squeeze, startling John. "You'll be fine," he whispered.

Oh God, had he been that obvious?

Drew laughed then. "Glad I'm not the only one."

Selina gave him a light punch to the arm. "You, shut up. You agreed to come, so you don't get to complain."

John hadn't remembered how good it felt to have someone else's hand in his, until Finch pulled away. He almost reached over to take Finch's hand back, but managed to stop himself in time. What had he been thinking? Or hadn't he? But... why?

"I wasn't complaining. I was just saying-"

"No. You were complaining..."

Right then, John wished he were anywhere but there.

"Say, John, what do you know about the latest Dodge Viper?"

"Uh, I can't say..."

"And you call yourself a sports car sales man," Shawn accused. "Don't you know anything? The Ford Mustang's where it's at."

"I'm not discrediting the Mustang."

"You're ignoring me now," Selina said to her husband's shoulder, as he turned away from her to face John. "Cute. I really appreciate it."

* * *

"We're going to have to blend in a little more," Finch whispered on their way through the lobby later that night.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"See? That's what I mean." Finch turned to John, raising his voice as he did so. "You still don't think this is a good idea."

"I... what?"

"This retreat. It's just one weekend. A few days of our lives. How bad can it be?"

The lightbulb going off in John's head, he replied, "That's just it! It's one weekend. How can a few days be long enough to repair a broken relationship?"

"You're not even willing to give it a chance? Is it that broken?"

And now they had the attention of the entire lobby. Just one more unhappy couple trying to work things out.

"What do you think I'm doing here? Humoring you?" John hissed, taking a step closer to Finch. Now Finch had to crane his neck to look up at him.

"I understand where you're coming from. I do."

"You do? You have a funny way of showing it."

"No. It's a step in the right direction. How many times have I told you, you know we can't fix everything in the space of a few days. But this is a start. And we have to start somewhere."

John snorted in Finch's face, stepped around him, and headed toward the elevator.


	2. Chapter 2

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 1 (John Reese): Chapter 2

A/N: Just an FYI, same-sex marriage was legalized in New York State on July 24, 2011, just a few short months before John met Harold and was offered a job, September 22, 2011. :-)

* * *

Upstairs in their hotel room, John slid his gun from the waistband of his dress pants and set it on the nightstand. His suit jacket went into the closet. Tomorrow, he would have to dress down to fit in with the others, though he sure as hell wasn't about to leave the gun behind. He rolled his sleeves up, ready to get to work.

When he turned to grab his duffle bag, he found Finch frozen beside the door. He hadn't taken any steps to move further into the room, get more comfortable, or even pull out his laptop.

"Finch? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing's wrong."

"Come help me set up the surveillance equipment."

John hoped that by giving Finch a job, it would pull him out of whatever negative head space he seemed stuck in.

"This was... is... a bad idea."

Or maybe not.

"What's a bad idea?"

Finch gestured awkwardly at the room, but no other explanation was forthcoming.

"What's a bad idea?" John repeated.

"I'm sorry, I can't do this," Finch blurted, turning toward the door and grasping the handle.

John was across the room in two strides, placing a gentle hand on Finch's arm. "Talk to me. This is not a bad idea. We can save her life if we work together on this."

Finch was trembling beneath his touch. Something had him spooked. But what? This was not like his employer.

"If it's about the sleeping arrangements, we'll need to take shifts to keep an eye on the surveillance. At least for the first few hours until everyone's asleep. After that, I'll sleep on the floor."

"I couldn't ask you to do that."

"I've slept in worse places. I'll be fine."

Finch turned to face him, but looked away. "It's not just that... it's... I left Grace to keep her safe..." Finch trailed off.

"You're on an undercover job, and from what I know of Grace, I don't think she'd hold any of this against you."

"No, it's... not that. It's more personal."

John had kissed him earlier in the evening. Of course, that's what this was all about. John had pushed it out of his mind, but now it came roaring back. What had he been thinking? They did not have that kind of relationship.

Finch needed Grace in that role. Not him. Besides, Finch wouldn't want him anyway. Not in that way. Not after all the horrible things he'd done in his life that he knew Finch detested. From now on, he would have to play this roll with the utmost care.

"Look, I'm here for you. Whatever you need. But right now, we have a job to do and I can't do it without you. We need to get this equipment up and running before the Pressfields come back to their room."

"Yes. Okay," Finch said, though the worried expression hadn't left his face.

* * *

"They were never married," Finch said, hours later, as he stared at his laptop while sitting up in bed.

"What do you mean? Who was never married?" John asked from the desk.

"Lucy Pressfield and Mike Townsend. I can't find any records to that effect."

"Well, they know each other from somewhere. They were glaring daggers at each other earlier. What does that mean?"

"Maybe they dated in high school and one wanted to break up and the other didn't?"

"Could be possible. But would you hold a grudge so late in life over that? After you'd married someone else? How old are they?"

John fiddled with the dials in front of him, ensuring he could better hear what was happening next door. The bed sheets rustled, but no other sound came through the microphone.

"They're both in their 40's. She's 43 and he's 45. You're right, that is a bit late too hold such a grudge. But then again, I'm the wrong person to base this on."

John chuckled. "Good point."

"The more important question is, does he mean to do her harm?"

"What if she wants to kill him?"

"Hopefully we'll figure it out sooner rather than later."

* * *

The next morning at breakfast the Townsends were just leaving as John and Finch arrived. Two lesbian couples were quick to grab the empty seats at their table.

"Hi, I'm Alexis Winters-Brown," said a beautiful blonde wearing a Human Rights Campaign t-shirt, as she held out her hand to John. "This is my wife, Genevieve, and these are our friends, Robyn and Marjorie Borich."

"Oh, nice to meet you," John greeted the four of them with a smile and shook her hand. He was impressed with Genevieve's Star Wars t-shirt. "I'm John, and this is, uh, Harold. Ow!" Pain flared in his foot as the sudden pressure of Finch's heel eased up under the table. He turned to see Finch glaring at him. "What was that for?"

Genevieve and Robyn giggled as Finch shook his head.

"You'll have to pardon him. He may have ended up with me, but that doesn't mean he keeps his eyes off other good looking people." Finch went back to eating his eggs benedict.

"Oh me too!" one of the women, Marjorie, said, her face lighting up. "Well, I personally think the world is full of beautiful people. The two of you included!"

Finch blushed, a deep shade of red as the four women departed the table to get breakfast, Robyn dragging her wife by the arm.

"Don't you dare blow our cover," Finch hissed once they were alone.

"I'm not doing any such thing."

"You most certainly are!"

If this was John blowing their cover, then what had Finch been thinking of doing the night before? John opened his mouth to ask when they were interrupted by a couple sitting down at the next nearest table, their leaden trays clattering down, silverware sliding around on slippery napkins.

"John, Harold," Lucy said. "Looks like you've already met our late arrivals."

"Yes, they seem like lovely women," Finch commented.

The Pressfields were both dressed in khaki shorts and pastel polo shirts. John was just grateful his own polo shirt collection for the trip was not in pastel colors. He would have murdered Finch, if it had been.

"So, how long have you two been married?" Shawn asked.

"Five years," John said.

"Three years this September," Finch said.

Lucy looked from one to the other, her head cocked to the side, eyebrows raised. Evaluating.

Finch glanced at John and kicked him under the table.

"Uh, I mean, well, three. It's three. But it feels like five sometimes," John corrected. He wondered how many bruises and injuries Finch would inflict upon him before breakfast was over.

Lucy grinned. "Oh, I know what you mean! Shawn and I have been together for eight years, married for four of them, and sometimes it feels like twenty!"

"Thanks, hon, I appreciate the vote of confidence there," Shawn said with a bit of mock sarcasm, followed by a wink in her direction.

As the four women came back, Lucy asked, "And how long have you ladies been married?"

Robyn glanced at Marjorie. "How long ago were we in college?"

Genevieve laughed. "The four of us met in college together. Nearly twenty years ago now. Of course we didn't get married until three years ago, the day after it was legalized. We had a double ceremony."

"What did you study in college, if I may ask?" Finch piped up.

"Oh, we went into organic agriculture and they studied business," Genevieve said. "We own a little farm, and they own the co-op that sells our produce."

"Oh, that's fantastic."

* * *

Breakfast was followed by a meditation session that John escaped by claiming he didn't feel well. He had to admit, Finch's acting was improving, if the sad, puppy dog look on his face was anything to go by.

"John, I don't want to have to do this alone. That's not the point of this retreat."

"I said I was sorry, okay?"

Finch grumbled something under his breath, turned away, and trooped off with the others to meditate.

John, meanwhile, broke into the Pressfield's room to have a look around. Everything was neat and organized. But there were three odd items packed at the bottom of Lucy's pink suitcase: a roll of duct tape, a slapjack, and a burner phone. The husband's suitcase held a couple changes of clothes and the latest thriller paperback. The dresser drawers were empty and the bathroom also yielded nothing except that Lucy placed a high importance on her hair and Shawn had dandruff in his.

When John returned downstairs, the meditation session was just getting out.

"I didn't expect to see you again this morning," Finch greeted him. "Are you feeling better?" His tone was cold as John led him over to a corner where they couldn't be overheard.

"I am actually." He showed Finch the picture he'd taken of the three objects in Lucy Pressfield's suitcase.

"Oh, that is troubling."

"Very."

"Well, if you're feeling better, maybe you'd like to accompany me to our group therapy session that's about to begin."

"Do I have to?"

"Don't whine like a child, John. We might learn something useful."

* * *

The room was the same one they'd had dinner in the night before. The tables had been removed and the chairs were arranged in a circle. They were joined by Chris Hartwicke, the Pressfields, the Copeks, and the Borichs. John would have preferred they mix things up, so he could get to know more of the couples in person rather than through their online financial data, but that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

"Harold, let's start with you," Chris said. "How often do you and John have sex?"

John turned his focus on Finch, keeping his own face unreadable, and wondered what arbitrary number Finch would come up with. Finch's mouth opened and closed again like a fish. His eyes were wide and he was turning beat red. Poor guy.

Marjorie giggled to herself, while everyone else seemed glad they hadn't been asked this intensely personal question.

Chris smiled. "You don't have to answer that out loud, Harold. But think about this, our lives are about a lot more than sex, right? So our romantic relationships should be as well."

While she droned on, John leaned over and asked under his breath, "You okay?"

He tried to hide his amusement, but he could tell by the side eye Finch gave him as he caught his breath and tried to relax, that he'd failed. "Sorry, honey. I wasn't prepared for that question either."

This time he smirked and Finch looked away from him.

"Okay, Lucy, let's talk about why you wanted to come to this retreat with your husband," Chris was saying.

"No." That was Shawn. "No. I think we should talk about why your ex is here." His eyes were intent on Lucy, boring into her. Where at breakfast he'd been in a happy mood, now he seemed borderline angry.

Robyn rolled her eyes and Drew glanced away from the couple in the hot seats.

Lucy pulled away from Shawn. "How the hell should I know what he's doing here. We came to one of these a few years ago. Maybe he thought he and his current wife would get something out of it."

"Wait just a minute... you came to a couples retreat with him?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So what you're telling me is that these things don't work."

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

"If this thing couldn't help you keep your first marriage together, what hope do we have?"

"Excuse me," Selina kept her voice quiet and a little sing songy, for effect.

"What?" Shawn asked, voice sharp.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to say something. Harold," she pointed at him, and all eyes turned to him. "Harold, here, had something insightful to say last night. He was speaking to John, and while I don't think John understood what he was trying to say, maybe you will."

"Get on with it already."

"Hey, excuse you," Chris butted in. "Let's calm down and hear what Selina has to say. This is a place of respect. When someone else has something to say, you listen. Even when you don't agree. Are we clear?"

Shawn nodded, but didn't say anything.

Selina smiled at Chris and continued, "He said that this retreat, being a weekend long, well, just over a weekend, really-"

Shawn sighed.

"Being that it's so short, it's a step in the right direction. It's not going to solve all of your problems, because that can't be done in so short a time, but it can help. I think, as long as you're willing to take what you learn from this and implement it in your life when you get home, you've got a better chance, than if you don't."

"Thank you, that was well said," Chris complimented.

Everyone gave silent nods of agreement, except Shawn and John.

"Great, let's move on. We'll come back to you, Lucy and Shawn. Selina and Drew, you're up. Why are you here and what do you hope to get out of this retreat?"

"I'm hoping to fix our lack of communication and to get this lug to listen to me," Selina said. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with seashells going across the front, making her look like someone's middle aged mom.

In John's experience, you could tell a lot about a person just by the type of shirt they wore, never mind what else they had on, and slogan t-shirts were the best for this.

Now that Marjorie was facing him, John had a clear picture of her t-shirt which sported a young blonde girl sitting astride a white horse with a rainbow mane and tail. There was a little white fluff ball with arms and legs sitting behind her. John pondered what the cartoon drawing meant before he realized Marjorie was smiling at him.

He hadn't meant to catch anyone else's attention in that way at this event. He couldn't afford it, even if he'd wanted it. He looked away, noticing that Lucy was biting one of her manicured nails while she stared at a stain on the carpet in front of her chair. Was she nervous? Scared? What for?

"I listened to you when you wanted to come here," Drew was saying. "I don't understand what you want from me."

From everything he'd witnessed, John doubted the Copeks had it in for Lucy. And unless Lucy had been dating one of the lesbians and switched sides, or maybe stolen something from them, he doubted they had anything against her either.

The Copeks were still bickering while Chris tried to sort them out, sometimes surfacing to ask advice from someone else in the room.

John wondered if this case didn't have anything to do with love and romance. Maybe Lucy had stolen something from someone. Or caused harm somehow.

"John, what do you think?"

He tuned in at his name, and blinked. "Um, what? Sorry, I got distracted."

"We can see that."

Why did he feel like he was back in school, getting yelled at by his teacher?

"What do you think about communication between spouses?" Chris asked.

"Oh, I'm in favor of it."

"Why?"

"I..." John paused to think on it a moment. "I understand the need for privacy, but I like to know what's going on. If there's something wrong, I'd like to know. I mean, can I do something to fix it? What can I do? Even if it's just to be there for support. You know? I think I'm good at the support role. But not if I'm shut out all the time."

"It sounds to me like you're talking about something specific. Want to expand on it?"

"Not really."

Selina gave him a sympathetic look.

"Harold, what about you?"

"What about me?"

Beside him, Finch stiffened his posture further.

"Does your husband's words resonate with you?"

When Finch didn't respond, Chris continued, "Have you not been communicating with him?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that."

John elbowed him in the ribs, happy for a brief moment, just to get him back for the stomping and the kicking from breakfast.

"Well, nothing of importance."

"You know, Harold, some people view any tiny bit of information you don't tell as not communicating, no matter how trivial it may seem."

"Smaller things snowball into bigger things," Robyn murmured from across the room.

"Exactly," Chris concurred. "Harold?"

"I left the wet laundry in the washing machine before we left home to come here."

John snorted, letting out a half grin. Such a blatant lie. It was funny. And yet, he wondered if he would ever get to the bottom of Finch's current issues, whatever they were.

"Harold, this isn't funny. You're paying good money to be here, to help yourself and John. You also had something insightful to say last night. What's changed? Why won't you talk to us?"

Finch shook his head. "I don't know if I'm ready to explain myself... I don't know if I'll ever be able to explain myself, the... thoughts... I..."

John reached over and slid his hand into Finch's, giving it a light squeeze. "It's okay, Harold," he said. "Whenever you're ready."

Finch didn't pull away, but he was trembling again, and he kept his eyes trained on the carpet. There would be no forcing this out of him, whatever it was. Finch would have to tell him when he was ready, however long that took.


	3. Chapter 3

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 1 (John Reese): Chapter 3

* * *

"There are four parts to this long walk," Don said. "The first is a scavenger hunt. The second is an obstacle course. Third is a small hedge maze, and fourth is a fun challenge involving a tennis ball."

And here John had thought it would just be a nice long walk in the woods, where he and Finch could chat up the other couples they hadn't met yet. He was eager to learn something about them and see how they fit into the puzzle that was their current number.

"Solve the clues, make it through the course, and you'll win a prize. But, you don't win if you don't play by the rules. This is about teamwork. If you leave your partner behind, if you're not together at the end, if you don't work together on this, you're disqualified."

The group of couples had dressed in shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers for this outdoor event. John and Finch were n long jeans, making them stand out, even if John felt more comfortable. He couldn't help but grin at the sight of one couple, the Rices, on the other side of the group. It was clear Mrs. Rice was not used to doing any type of outdoor activities. She still wore her pearl necklace, and couldn't stop moving around, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, her wedding ring, her necklace, anything she had on. So far, he hadn't seen her in anything but heels and a dress. Her husband was looking rather smug, and comfortable, in his outdoor clothes.

When they had been looking up the other couples online, nothing had stood out about the Rices. They seemed like nice enough people, judging by their social media presence. Rich though. They were one of the richer couples present, next to the Conleys. And it was clear Mrs. Rice had been a pampered child growing up.

The back of John's neck prickled with the feeling that he was being watched. He glanced around him, catching sight of everyone present. Damon Parris was standing some way off, facing him. Staring. His mouth was drawn into a firm line, though his eyes were wide open. John took a step closer to Finch and placed his hand around Finch's waist. Stella Parris then turned to face her husband, blocking John's view of Damon. He relaxed a fraction, then tensed up again when Finch wrapped an arm around him in return.

"Are you okay?" Finch whispered. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," John murmured. "Everything's fine." He hoped.

John forced himself to relax again, loosening his grip on Finch's waist. Finch was with him. Safe. Things were good in that moment. Damon staring at him was nothing to be concerned about.

No one was watching Lucy. At least, no one from their group appeared to have some vendetta against her as they listened to Don speaking. Then again, what if the threat was coming from outside the retreat?

"Trust is the name of the game here," Don was saying. "Trust in your partner."

Why couldn't Finch trust in him enough to tell him what was wrong? Why, after this long, was Finch still being secretive and private about things that were important enough to have him avoiding John like the plague?

"Okay, go!"

"John?" Finch was trying to look up at him while still glued to his side. "We have a clue we need to look at."

John sighed. This was not going to be easy.

"We're gonna be first!" Francine Conley yelled out as she and her husband ran past them.

John watched them go and felt Finch detach from his side. Everyone was moving fast, in a hurry to get to their first clues. No one was paying Lucy any mind. But was she paying too much close attention on another couple, perhaps? It was a little too difficult to determine with everyone in such a hurry and crossing paths as they were. But Kathleen Rice seemed to be staying within her vision. Kathleen and also Lillian Bergman.

In fact, Lucy left Shawn for a moment to chat with Lillian. Over her phone's mic John heard her ask about Patrick Bergman and how their relationship was doing over the weekend so far.

"Here, John," Finch was handing John a box.

"What do I do with this?" he asked.

"You unlock it when I give you the code."

John saw that the box had a combination lock and Finch was holding up a slip of paper with a bunch of numbers on it, using his finger to do sums in the air as if it were a whiteboard. John smiled. Finch was in his element just then, a tiny smile on his face.

Damon shuffled past, too close for comfort, letting their arms brush. The hair on the back of John's neck prickled again. And he stared after the other man, wondering what the deal was, when they hadn't even spoken a single word to each other. Had he done something he was unaware of that had pissed off the other man? He hadn't seemed angry. And his wife wasn't too far behind him, giving her husband a coy smile. What was her deal?

"46, 32, 25" Finch rattled off. "Hopefully in that order."

John spun the dial and the lock clicked open.

Inside the box was a single piece of paper with "John and Harold Rinch" written on it. He flipped it over and read "Congratulations on your first clue. Here's your second: Find this bird, and with it, your next clue." There was a picture of a robin underneath.

"Finch," he said under his breath. "Can you concentrate on these clues while I try to keep an eye on Lucy?"

"Of course. Follow me."

"What if the threat isn't from one of these people?"

"I've thought of that. If that's the case, well, the best we can do at this point is to wait and see. I've checked all of her social media, her bank accounts, everything. I haven't seen anything that would indicate someone has a grudge against her or anything. I'll look again when we get back to the room tonight."

John glanced around, making sure to locate every other couple present and put a name to a face.

Ian and Nichole Gonzalez were conferring to themselves, huddled together as if they were protecting something from the government.

Christopher and Amie Albert strolled down the path that lead into the woods at a sedate pace, holding hands. Christopher was reading from a piece of paper.

The Winters-Brown ladies were standing just off the path. Alexis was writing something on a piece of paper while Genevieve appeared to be pointing out the shape of a nearby birch leaf.

Drew and Selina were ahead of the pack, too far ahead to determine what they were up too, other than power walking.

Stella Parris and her husband, Damon, had their backs turned to the group as they conversed with each other, at times peeking over each other's shoulder to check on the other participants.

"Are we supposed to be in some sort of race?" John asked Finch.

"No. Their behavior is a bit... odd. Well, no, not odd. This type of game usually gets large groups of people in a competitive mood whether it's necessary or not."

Then there was Lillian and Patrick Bergman and Francine and Aaron Conley. Both couples appeared to be working independent of their partners. They began with one reading their clue, but then they separated from each other and didn't talk or interact in any way. One moved up ahead while the other went off the path to the left or right. John had a difficult time trying to determine if the couples had decided to split up as a way to work together, or if they detested each other enough that even with this supposedly fun activity, they couldn't stand to be near each other.

"Hey, Harold?"

"Yes, Mr..." Finch caught himself. "John?"

John smiled. "Will you promise me you'll keep Bear if we ever decide to divorce?"

Finch spluttered. "What? Who said we would... Why would you ask... He's your dog."

"I got him for you."

"Well, I..." Harold paused, then turned away from him. "I can't talk about that with you right now. Not here."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because... because I said so."

John's smile turned into a smirk, while up ahead, Lucy was chatting with Kathleen Rice. He tapped into her blue jacked phone in time to hear her say "you must do rather well for yourself then. Why don't you take all your money and leave the bastard."

"Because, we agreed when we got married that we would share the money," Kathleen was saying. "Also, a lot of it is tied up in both our businesses anyway."

"Oh, honey, I get it. Shawn's like that. What does your husband do again? Did you tell me?"

"Listen to this," he told Finch. "Lucy seems intent on Kathleen. What do you think is up with the twenty questions she's been asking the other women?"

"Good question."

Not too far away from their wives, Shawn and Charles were looking at their next clues.

"What about you?" Kathleen was asking. "Do you think you'll stick with Shawn, or is it that far gone?"

Lucy giggled like a little school girl without a care in the world, the sound high and almost musical. "Oh, I don't know. We'll just have to see. It depends on how much of his money I can get him for, I think. He's loaded. I'm not."

Beside him, Finch started. "Oh, look. There's a robin's nest up there. This must be our next clue."

* * *

"This was a bad idea," Finch murmured.

"You keep saying that."

"I didn't realize this walk was going to include strategically placed barriers I can't climb over, or go under very easily. We're now at the back of the group and losing ground. Fast."

Finch pulled himself up onto the very large tree across the path, though not without difficulty, John noticed as he waited on the other side. Sweat had already beaded across Finch's forehead as he tried to turn around and climb down the other side of the tree. His foot slipped on the tiny foothold and he lost his grip. John heard him gasp, and moved in to catch him, their faces mere inches apart when Harold landed in his arms.

If it had been anyone else, Zoey... maybe even Carter... John might have kissed them. Or made some witty remark about doing so. But Finch had saved his life by giving him this job. He could take it away. And then what would John have? Nothing. Nothing at all... without Finch.

"John?"

John gave him a wry smile. "You could let me help you. I think that's the point of this exercise anyway. We're supposed to be working at becoming a better team."

"I thought we already worked well together."

John set Finch down, holding him until he was steady on his own feet again. "We do. But I'm sure there's always room for improvement. That is what Don said, right?"

"Right." Harold wasn't looking at him, though.

They kept walking, and at the next obstacle, John climbed up, then took Finch's hands and pulled him up onto the fallen tree beside him.

"Wasn't that easier?"

Finch just eyed him without a word.

John jumped down the other side, then held out his arms to both steady Finch and catch him as he came down.

"See? You're in one piece."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese."

Finch had gone back to being formal. Was that a good sign? John wasn't so sure. He wasn't sure of much having to do with Finch these days.

Up ahead, he thought he could hear Barbara's high pitched voice yelling something at Mike. He sighed, and climbed up on the last of the high obstacles they needed to climb over. He reached down, grabbed Finch's hands, and hoisted him up to sit opposite him on the log. Or at least, that was the plan, until Finch's elbow connected with the bridge of his nose, sending stars dancing past John's eyes. He felt Finch's hands slip from his loosening grip.

"John!"

"I've got you!" He tightened one hand on Finch's, let go with the other, and wrapped his arm around Harold's waist, hauling him up until the man was half in his lap. "I've got you," he said again, much calmer now that Harold wasn't in any danger of falling.

It should have been funny. But John was too aware of how easy it would be to lose Harold. In more ways than one.

"I never should have signed us up for this," Finch mumbled as he righted himself on the log and readjusted his glasses.

"You're afraid of me," John said. Out loud. Before his brain could stop his mouth. "I'm a monster and you're afraid of me."

Finch jerked his head up to look at John, his eyes wide open, no doubt shocked by the turn in conversation. "No."

John hadn't even realized this could be the reason for Harold's avoiding him until that very moment. He still shouldn't have said it out loud. At least not until he was sure it was true. Now it was done and he couldn't take it back. He had to go forward with the thoughts that were quickly stacking up and making sense, "you only want my skills. Not the rest of me. Just like Kara and Mark."

"That's not true, John. No."

This time it was Harold reaching out to him, cupping his cheek in his hand, so gently, John almost couldn't feel it at first. When he didn't move away Harold brushed his thumb over John's cheekbone.

"None of that is true. Nothing you just said. None." Harold let out a shaky breath. "Please don't believe it. You are not a monster," he whispered the last word, as if he were afraid of it, of what it represented. "Not to me you aren't."

John couldn't not believe it because that had been his life. And he'd seen it happen to others. When you'd outlived your usefulness, you were killed. Or when you screwed up. He still wasn't ready to die. He'd thought he was once. But now, they were making a difference in the world. One person at a time was slow going, but they were making a difference. And for the first time in his life he had... friends... maybe even something approaching family, though that might have been stretching it a bit. Even if Harold would one day discard him, he wasn't ready to leave this behind yet. To leave Harold unprotected. To leave numbers in danger.

"What happens when you don't need me any more?" That day had to come eventually. Didn't it?

"John..." Harold closed his eyes.

A bird chirped somewhere nearby as Harold struggled to compose himself. When he opened his eyes again, he looked right into John's. "You are so much more than your government acquired skills. That's why I hired you." He paused for a moment and a squirrel scampered through a nearby tree, rustling the leaves. "The day I don't need you is the day you make that decision for yourself. I can't hold you here against your will, but I don't want to let you go either."

John slipped his hand over Harold's, pressing it to his face. "Thank you," he said, the words catching on the lump in his throat.

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?" A single man in cargo shorts and a pale yellow polo shirt was halfway up one side of the fallen tree.

"Hi." John coughed to clear his throat. "Aaron, right?" he asked, as he and Harold parted from each other. "Where's... Francine?"

Aaron Conley snorted. "She's miles ahead of me, accepting our prize for us, I assume."

"You mean you don't know?" Harold asked.

"Oh, I'm sure she is. She's into extreme sports. Rock climbing, parkour, rugby. You name it, she's done it. I sit behind a computer all day. So, we agreed she should be the one to go on ahead and let me take my time."

"But, I thought-"

Finch punched John in the arm and raised his eyebrows at him, as John rubbed the spot in mock hurt.

"Oh, okay then," he amended. "Well, I guess we'll get moving. You ready, Harold?"

John helped Harold off the tree, again holding him until he was steady on his own feet. Aaron had already moved ahead of them into the mini hedge maze that greeted them.

They paused at the entrance to the maze and John had the distinct urge to take Harold's hand in his and hold it, until they were through the maze. Not having that kind of relationship, he crossed his arms over his chest instead.

"I think we should take the path on the right, what do you think?" Harold asked.

"Aaron went left, I'll agree with you."

* * *

When they emerged from the maze, they found Francine Conley waiting for her husband, a deep frown on her face.

"He's in the maze somewhere," John said, trying to be helpful.

"Good. At least he's made it that far."

Just beyond her, Don waited for them, a tennis ball in his hand.

"This is called Tennis Ball Mania," he said by way of introduction. "Are you ready to begin?"

John took a quick look at Harold. Sweat was dripping down the side of his face.

"Let's do it," Finch said.

"Great! This upturned bucket is your starting point. The second upturned bucket over there is your ending point." Don pointed toward a red bucket several yards away near where the other couples were milling about, and watching them. "You must hold this tennis ball between your foreheads and work together without using your hands, to get it to the other bucket. If you drop it, you have to start over again."

John inwardly groaned.

"You two have done great so far," Don said. "When other teams split up, you stuck together, even when your skills didn't match up to the task at hand. And that was the name of the game here. You worked together to finish together. Now, you've gotten this far, I know you can make it these last few yards. Go!"

Don held the ball up while John and Harold placed their foreheads against it.

"Crab step, Harold," John instructed. "On my count. One." They took a step every time he counted, so that they stayed in sync with each other. But it still wasn't easy. John ached to straighten his back as Harold stumbled along with him. When Harold took a step back instead of sideways, John stepped with him so they wouldn't drop the ball. Harold stopped and took a deep breath.

"To your right," John said. "You ready?"

"Just promise me you're not going to tell Ms. Shaw or Ms. Groves about this."

"You know I wouldn't do that."

"Thank you. I'm ready."

"Good. Go."

Halfway through the game, the thought hit John in the gut. He stumbled, but caught himself just in time. Harold was ill. That had to have been the problem. They'd never before discussed any health issues unless it was a gunshot wound acquired on the job. Of course Harold wouldn't want to talk about it, whatever it was. The idea of Harold being ill in general, never mind being terminally ill, made John want to scoop him up and carry him away from this stupid game.

A cheering crowd met them as John tripped over the second bucket, Harold catching him by the arm to keep him upright. The tennis ball gave a half-hearted bounce on the grass then rolled a few feet away. They'd made it. Behind them, the Conleys were just starting the tennis ball game.

* * *

When the group stopped for lunch soon after, they found themselves at the top of a low hill, overlooking a picturesque farm. The house's windows were boarded up, the barn's red paint was peeling, and the empty fields were overgrown with weeds. But there was still something beautiful about it to John.

He guided Harold to a nearby rock to sit and wait while he went to get their prepackaged lunch from a cooler. Now was not the time to discuss Harold's health while they were in the middle of a case and surrounded by strangers but John was determined to have that conversation when they got back to the city.

"What are you in for?" Stella Parris asked, as John turned back to Harold.

"Excuse me?"

"Handsome guy like you?" she cooed. "You're a bad boy inside." Her eyes flashed. "I just know it. So, what's your other half dragged you here for?"

"Who says he dragged me?" John suggested. "He's uncommunicative as hell. But we're stuck with each other, so here we are, trying to work things out. Excuse me."

John took a step toward Harold, when he ran into Mike who was shaking his head. Behind him, Barbara was yelling something at him.

"She was the one who made us come on this retreat," he said to John, keeping his voice low. "I don't know how you two do it. I can't stand this. She's never not angry with me for one thing or another. I didn't want to come. I still don't want to be here. It's not working. How do I get out of this?"

John gave him a perfunctory smile. "The weekend's not even halfway over yet. Give it some time. I'm sure everything will work out fine in the end."

On his way back to Harold, John noticed Lucy chatting up another woman nearby. This time it was Francine Conley, and again, she seemed to be asking twenty questions.

"What did Mike want?" Harold asked when John returned to his side.

"Something tells me we should be looking into Barbara a little more."

"Did you notice this morning how Shawn said Mike was Lucy's ex and no one batted an eye?" Harold asked under his breath.

"Yep. I noticed. But maybe she lied to him."

"About that? Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Harold took a bite of the ham and cheese sandwich John offered him.

"Hey, what do we know about the Parris couple?" John opened a bottle of water and set it beside Finch before opening one for himself.

"What do you mean?"

"They're both giving me the creeps."

"I don't remember anything of note. But I can look deeper into them when we get back to the room. Do you think they have something to do with Lucy?"

"All I know is that my sixth sense is telling me to get away from them."


	4. Chapter 4

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 1 (John Reese): Chapter 4

* * *

Now that lunch was over, a new game was started. Chris had named this one The Partner Quiz and John wondered if Lucy had just been getting a head start with all of her questions earlier.

"Between the two of you, who would be the one most likely to steal the covers?" Chris asked.

"Francine," Aaron was quick to state.

Francine elbowed Aaron in the ribs, but she was smiling as she did so.

Off to the side, Don made a check mark by the couple's name on a clipboard, keeping score. Behind him, the view of the abandoned farm spread out for miles and John couldn't help staring at it as he listened to the inane chatter around him and enjoyed the feel of grass under his hands. He missed having the time to relax and recoup from some of their numbers. He pushed an image of Leon Tao out of his head and determined that he would get Harold out of the library more often.

While most of the couples were sitting near each other on the grass, some of them were being careful not to touch each other. Others were holding hands and the Borich ladies were giving each other back massages while they participated in the game.

Beside him, Harold leaned against a rock, trying to pretend his back wasn't in some kind of pain from the day's activities. The urge to reach over and give him a bit of a back rub was stronger than he would have thought a few days ago. The realization having taken him by surprise made it that much more difficult to resist.

As the game continued, each couple chimed in with their answers, some bickering as they attempted to answer in a timely manner.

"Remember," Don said. "If you can't agree, your answer doesn't count and you lose the point."

"I thought Chris said this was supposed to be a fun game," John spoke to Harold under his breath.

He was relieved he wasn't married in real life to have to go through all this for real. But what did it matter? He was technically married for the weekend and still going through this, whether he wanted to or not.

"You would steal the covers off me, wouldn't you?" Harold whispered back.

"No, Harold, I'm pretty sure you'd be the one stealing the covers."

"Harold? John? Your answer?"

"John," Harold was quick to accuse.

Chris looked to John for confirmation and, thinking about all that they had been through before, and knowing he was in a support roll for Finch, John nodded agreement. "Yeah, it's me."

She smiled at him before moving on to the next question. "Where is your partner's favorite place in the world?"

"At work," Mike said.

"At the gym." Barbara refused to look at Mike.

"In bed." Damon raised his eyebrows in a suggestive manor and then winked at his wife.

Stella Parris giggled.

"In the library, with all the books," John said.

"He's a lot more athletic and outdoorsy than me so, at the lake house in New Hampshire with our dog, Bear."

"Those two places sound far apart from each other," Chris commented.

"To be fair, there is a large book collection at the lake house, so I like being there too."

The cute smile on Harold's face had John wishing they didn't have to argue so much, even as he began to complain again, "He reads long into the night, won't ever come to bed."

"I do not!"

"Boys! Don't lose this point for your team. Drew? Selina? Who sings in the shower?"

"We both do," they said in unison.

"Ugh," Barbara started. "He does," emphasis on her husband's pronoun strong.

"Why is that such a bad thing?" Mike asked.

"You're terrible! You caterwaul like a drowning cat."

"Hey, now," Don spoke up. "Let's not say negative things toward each other right now. This is meant to be a fun game. Besides, everyone's singing's bad in the shower. Unless you're Beyonce."

John snorted. "I think I'm pretty good in the shower," he commented under his breath.

Harold elbowed him in the ribs. "No you're not."

"How would you know?"

"That first time you got shot?" He whispered. "We spent a lot of time together, remember? I heard you in the shower. More than once."

"I was shot. Of course I wasn't at my best."

"Here's a related question, what genre of music does your spouse prefer?"

"Lucy likes classical music," Shawn said. "She listens to it while she works. It's so irritating. I hear it for hours afterward."

Chris sighed. "And Shawn? What does he like?"

"Nothing. He hates music." Lucy gave her husband a nasty look that John read as 'you must be pond scum to not like music'.

"How can anyone hate music?" John whispered.

"John? What about Harold? What does he listen to the most?"

"Opera." John shivered. "Now THAT sounds like a drowning cat."

"I promised you could choose the music on the way home!"

"That doesn't change the fact that opera sounds like a drowning cat, Harold. It gives me a headache."

"John," Chris said, stepping in, "It sounds like you did reach some sort of agreement about music in the car, so maybe you can try not to be so negative toward Harold over his choice in music?"

"Maybe."

"Harold? What music does John like?"

"Classic rock," Harold said with a sulk.

"What did you do on your first date?"

"We went to see an author talk in the student union building at college," Genevieve said.

"Oh yes, it was a fascinating talk about over farming and what different countries are doing about it," Alexis said with a sparkle to her eyes. "I remember, because this beautiful girl sat next to me, then asked me out for coffee afterward, and I'd never been on a proper date before so I was a total ditz."

"No you weren't!"

"It was pouring rain something crazy," Harold said. "We were bored, so we went to this little tiny theater and saw The Rain People, ironically enough, and Rashomon. I remember liking both of them."

"I still think we should have seen Once Upon a Time in the West at the other theater." John cleared his throat. "Fewer subtitles," he clarified. "And the seats are more comfortable."

Several of the men nodded in agreement. Damon kept glancing back at John out of the corner of his eye. Did he think John didn't notice? How on earth was John going to get him to stop being creepy?

Awhile later when the torture of The Partner Quiz was over, John breathed a huge sigh of relief. He hated having to make up things on the spot, even if he and Harold did have enough experience together that not all of their answers were made up.

Chris and Don started handing out prizes to the couples who made it through the four parts of the long walk working as a team. In third place, Drew and Selina Copek won a dinner for two at the hotel's very nice restaurant. There was a weekend stay at the hotel on a return trip for Alexis and Genevieve Winters-Brown, who came in second. Robyn and Marjorie Borich had come in first place, and were both eager to collect a full spa package. Last, but not least, there was a couple's massage at the hotel's mini spa for John and Harold. While they'd come in almost dead last, they had been working together as a team the entire time, unlike most of the others.

"This would be good for your back, Harold," John whispered, as he sat back down after picking up their prize envelope.

"If you think I'm going to-"

"Relax, Harold. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Sorry. You're right. It's fine."

When John got up again to deal with their lunch trash, Damon Parris approached him, carrying his own trash.

"Arguing again? How did a hottie like you, land a nerd like that?"

John refused to face him. "Damon, right? First off, that's rude. Second, that's none of your business."

Damon leered at him. "I might have married a woman, but we have an open relationship... if you know what I mean?"

"What's your point?" John stared at one of the boarded up windows of the farm house, making sure to keep his expression stony.

"You're gorgeous! I wouldn't mind..."

"Our relationship is NOT open."

"But, are you sure you wouldn't-"

"Thank you for understanding."

Damon frowned, then stalked off as John turned back to Harold, quick to put an arm around him.

"Feeling a little possessive, are we, John?"

"Is a matter of fact, yes."

"Why? What happened?"

"I think Damon just tried to get me to sleep with him, and maybe his wife too."

"What? But..."

"They have an open relationship," John said with a smirk.

"Oh... Oh!" Harold shivered beneath John's arm. "That is not okay. Do I need to go talk to him?" Harold started to get up and John tightened his grip on his waist.

"It's fine, Harold. I'm fine. I took care of it. You don't need to protect me, but thank you for wanting to."

Harold relaxed, leaning into him with a sigh of relief.

As the other couples were standing up, throwing away their trash and getting ready to head back to the hotel, Selina approached the two men, her husband otherwise occupied.

"You two argue a lot, but you're not fooling anyone," she said. "John never hesitated to help you on the obstacle course, Harold, and he did it with kindness, not just a sense of duty. Then, I saw you try to rush off to protect him from poachers, as it were, just now. You listen to each other. Even when you say you lack communication and argue all the time. So, why are you here? Are you undercover cops? Feds?"

There was a pause, and then John said, "we'd tell you..." He winked. "But then we'd have to kill you."

Selina cracked up laughing, her hand covering her mouth doing nothing to dim the high-pitched cackles. "Well, you just tell me if you need my help, whatever it is you're up to. I need a little excitement in my life, you know?"

* * *

The walk back to the hotel followed a simple trail with no obstacle courses or tricky questions. John was grateful on Harold's behalf as his friend was leaning on him more and more with each step they took.

"Do you want to stay here and have them send the golf cart back for us?" John suggested.

"No. I'll be fine," Harold refused.

Don had asked if they wanted to set the pace, but Harold had insisted that wasn't necessary, and so they were at the back of the group again. John had to admit, being at the back did have it's advantages. While he worked to hold Harold up, he was able to keep an eye on the others, and observe their behavior. Though most of what he saw was a group of people tired after a long few hours on a strange obstacle course. No one said much.

Harold lurched out of John's grasp, John just managing to grab his hand and pull him close before he would have face planted on the ground.

"Are you okay?" John asked, their faces mere inches apart.

"I tripped on a root. I think. Thanks for catching me."

"You're welcome." John smiled, and was relieved when Harold gave him a small smile back. Exhaustion ringed his eyes though, and John wanted to get him back to the hotel for a nap before dinner as fast as possible.

No one had noticed that they'd stopped, everyone lost in their own inner worlds it seemed. John shifted so Harold could stand on his own feet again, then moved beside him and put an arm around him for better support.

"What would I have ever done without you?" Harold mumbled as they continued on.

And wasn't that the question of the hour? John's heart rate had gone up and his palms were damp. He had to remind himself again that they did not have that kind of relationship, even if he did enjoy having Harold that close... And then another thought slammed into his head. Was Harold so exhausted because of his previous injury and the stress of the activities they'd been doing? Or was it due to something else? Cancer, maybe? Could he be that sick? Was John about to lose the one person who had kept him going and kept him sane these past few years? Harold had always been a private person. John understood that. But this... would Harold tell him if he was terminally ill?

John gripped his hip tighter and kept them going, suddenly frightened out of his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 1 (John Reese): Chapter 5

* * *

Dinner was an odd affair that night. Half of the couples were silent. The other half couldn't stop talking about their experiences that day, how they felt about them and what they'd learned. Sitting next to the Pressfields, John was conscious of Lucy's wandering eyes. She was checking out everyone else, whether they were sitting at her table or not, without saying a word to anyone.

At the next table over, Barbara was glowering at her plate while Mike Townsend was staring at Lucy. His mouth was a flat line, his eyes hard. It was difficult to determine his motives, but John was sure he was cooking up something important. And whatever it was, it had everything to do with Lucy, his ex/not ex. Her gaze lingered for an extra second on his, then continued roving, to land on Lillian Bergman.

Lillian was talking with her husband, Patrick, in hushed tones. She was smiling, and he was leaning in to hear her better, the corners of his mouth lifting to match hers. If they weren't patching things up between them, they were doing a hell of a job faking it.

Beside John, Harold was picking at his vegetarian dinner, moving his food around his plate so no one would notice he wasn't eating much. John's stomach roiled at the reminder that something was wrong but he knew it would do no good to worry over Harold when they were working a case. He took another bite of his own chicken dinner. John's best guess was that half of the original couple who'd had their spot must have ordered the vegetarian option and Harold hadn't gotten a chance to change it. He picked up both of their plates and swapped them.

"John?" Harold glanced at him.

John just shook his head and began to eat Harold's dinner which consisted of grilled peppers containing a mixture of rice and other vegetables with a spicy tomato sauce. It wasn't great. But it wasn't terrible either. From the corner of his eye he saw Harold take a few bites of his chicken parmesian with a bit more relish.

He knew they should be arguing over something, just to keep up the facade, but he couldn't. Not when he saw how exhausted Harold was, and how little he was eating. All he could do now was take care of him.

Back on his other side, it appeared that Lucy's roving gaze had found Kathleen and Charles Rice. The couple weren't exactly facing away from each other, but they might as well have been. Even with the distance between the tables, John could feel the ice currents coming from them. Kathleen ate her chicken in small, measured bites, while Charles was already finished with his stuffed green peppers. He turned toward Damon Parris, saying something John couldn't hear. Damon nodded his head in agreement with a wide, toothy grin.

"You look tired, sweetheart," John said to Harold once the dessert course was over. "Maybe it's time we turned in for the night?"

"Hmmm? Yes, I think so."

John took his arm and helped him to his feet. Worry lines wrinkled on Harold's forehead once he was standing, his gate becoming more stiff than usual.

"Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine."

They said goodnight to the other couples at their table who were also preparing to go back up to their rooms for the night. Lucy mumbled something that might have been "goodnight" or might not have been. She still seemed distracted by everyone else and with her own thoughts. John wondered what she was thinking as he helped Harold to the elevator.

* * *

In their room, Harold's movements became even more stiff and the grimace on his face had John rushing to help him out of the suit jacket he'd worn to dinner. When Harold took a step away from him John held him still by his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Harold asked.

"Let me help you." John moved to stand in front of him.

"I'm not an invalid, you know."

"I know. But you've also had a very hard day and I can tell you're in a lot of pain right now. So let me help you get more comfortable."

Harold's shoulders slumped after a moment. He did not meet John's eyes when he said, "I would like that. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Harold unbuttoned his dress shirt and John peeled it off his shoulders and down his arms.

"Can you dance?"

John was startled by the question, but didn't let it deter him from his mission. "I'm not great," he admitted, while reaching for Harold's undershirt. "But I can dance. Why?"

"We have lessons tomorrow morning."

"Are you sure you'll be up for that?"

Harold's eyes met his. "No," he admitted.

"I'm sure they'll let us sit it out. That'll make surveillance easier at least, if we can just observe the others."

"True."

John handed Harold his pajama bottoms and let him finish changing on his own, then held up the bottle of olive oil he'd swiped from the kitchen earlier.

"John?!" Harold's eyes went wide in shock.

"Not only am I a passable dancer when I need to be, I'm also not a half bad masseuse."

Harold's posture stiffened again. "I'm not..."

"Look, I won't do anything you're uncomfortable with. And you know I'm good at keeping secrets. This will never get back to Shaw and Root, or anyone else, through me. You have my word. Let me help you. Please."

And while you're at it, please tell me what's going on with you! John yelled in his head, knowing full well he might never get the answers he wanted until it was too late.

"I do trust you. It's just..."

John dug a thumb into the area above Harold's shoulder blades. The sound that came out of Harold was a mix between a groan, a whimper, and a cry of pain.

"No choice, Harold. I'm assuming you have pain medication with you?"

"Yes. Of course."

"You should take some, then I want you on your stomach. You have too many knots and you're in too much pain for me to let this go."

"I... thank you."

Harold's skin was warm when John placed an oiled hand on the center of his back. He wasn't sure why he found this so surprising. He hadn't wanted to do anything at first, just center the two of them. When was the last time he'd touched someone like this? This was more than just their fingers brushing whenever John handed Harold his cup of tea, or even when he'd kept an arm around him on their walk back to the hotel earlier. This one simple touch was even more than anything he'd ever done with Jessica.

This wasn't just... anything. It was terrifying, like taking a leap off a cliff and free diving into a small lake thousands of feet below. If he didn't land just right, his body would smash against the rocks into a million tiny pieces. Well, perhaps death was better than the alternative if this failed.

No. Where had that thought come from? He wouldn't think like that. Not after everything Harold had done for him. John refocused on the hand he'd placed in the center of Harold's back, on Harold's warm skin, and the bumps of the spine beneath his palm. He felt Harold take a deep breath and let it out, his body rising and falling as he did so.

When Harold took another breath, John took one with him, matching him breath for breath until they were in sync.

John then began mapping the rough scars on Harold's back with the pads of his fingers. Harold shivered with each individual touch, relaxing again over time. As John ran his fingers down Harold's fused spine, still touching to calm him, Harold closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. John wondered how Harold had come to be injured. Where had all these scars come from? Wherever it was, he wished he'd been there to protect him, but that was long before Harold had hired him. He'd likely been in Morocco or China at the time. Or any number of other places.

But those things didn't matter any more. What mattered was that they were together now, and John could protect Harold now and into the future for as long as his life would allow it.

Adding more oil to his palms, he pressed harder into Harold's back, seeking out the knots with his fingers, then working them out with the heels of his hands.

"Tell me if this hurts too much," John said, as Harold's grunts gave way to a hiss of pain.

"Feels good," Harold mumbled.

* * *

John lost track of time as he realized how happy it made him to use his strength for something wholly good where he wasn't hurting someone on purpose.

"Better?" John asked when he could no longer find any knots.

"You turned me into a puddle of goo," Harold murmured into the pillow.

"You're welcome." John smiled to himself.

As he pulled away from Harold, his fingers lingering on his warm skin, John's phone lit up from the nightstand where he'd left it. Lucy's phone was picking up audible voices. Someone was giggling in a suggestive way.

"Hi," the female voice, now more recognizable as Lucy's, said. "Can I come in?"

John and Harold stared at each other.

"Of course," said a familiar male voice.

"Are you alone?"

"You know I am."

A door slammed from the room next door to theirs a split second before a door slammed in the background on the phone. The slamming door was followed by the sounds of kissing, wild and hungry.

Harold's eyes went wide with shock as he turned onto his side.

John smirked. "Well, someone's getting lucky tonight."

"John!" Harold hissed.

"I didn't say I agreed with her sleeping with Mike, did I? But it certainly explains some things."

"I can't believe... her husband's two doors down!" Harold's cheeks reddened.

John turned the volume down so Harold wouldn't be inundated with the rather intimate sounds from their neighbors.

"Maybe they have an open relationship," John suggested.

When Lucy left Mike's room half an hour later, Harold asked, "Now, what does that mean? They were lovers before, but to what extent? And does that affect our case?"

"I guess we'll just have to wait to find out."

"Hi, honey, I'm home!" Lucy called out upon reentering her own room.

"Hey, where've you been?" Shawn asked.

"I was just visiting with Don and Chris. Getting some advice for us."

"Oh yeah? And what advice did they give you?" he asked, his voice sounding a bit suggestive.

"Why don't I show you?"

There was the sound of rustling fabric.

"Oh, yes please..."

"Again?" Harold asked, covering his face as the kissing began.

It wasn't long, however, before the bed in the room next door began knocking against the wall.

This time John turned the mic off, though the walls were too thin to keep out much of the noise.

Harold sat up in bed and John handed him his laptop when he asked for it.

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm going to recheck Lucy's electronic breadcrumbs with a fine toothed comb. Somewhere out there is the truth of what she's been doing, or what she's about to do. I just have to search hard enough to find it."

Awhile later Harold gasped. He was staring at his laptop, a look of pure glee on his face, even with the wild sex going on next door.

"What?" John asked.

"I found it. I'm not sure what it means yet. But last year, both Lucy and her husband were part of this same couples retreat run by Don and Chris. Lucy's bank account had a large sum of money, $50,000, dumped into it. And it looks like it came from Mike. Since then, I've correlated several other large bank transactions that occurred at the same time as other couples retreats they attended around the country."

"So, she's blackmailing people to get money out of them at these retreats?"

"It looks that way. Do we know anyone she's been targeting here?"

"She seemed to take a long time staring at the Rices at dinner, but then, she was staring at everyone at dinner and quizzing several of the other women earlier today, so it's hard to say."

Harold went back to typing and next door the headboard stopped banging against the wall, to John's immediate relief.

"But what I don't understand is why she just slept with Mike after she blackmailed him last year for $50,000. And why would either of them return to the same couple's retreat? Wait..." John recalled a conversation he'd had with Mike earlier. "Mike said he didn't want to come. Barbara made him come. Do you think she has something to do with this? Did she find out about the blackmail?"

"I haven't found anything on Barbara yet and there's nothing that suggests she's targeted the Rices for blackmail," Harold said. "There's no digital footprint to suggest it."

"What about Shawn? Could he be the one doing the searching?"

"I don't have access to his laptop to check his search history, but I checked his online accounts and I'm not finding anything there either."

John thought a moment, then shook his head. "If they're tech savy enough, they know not to leave a digital trail. They're likely doing all their research here, in person, listening carefully to the answers to personal questions, which would explain all the questions Lucy's been asking, and also the reason they target couples retreats."

"But that also doesn't make sense. You can't blackmail someone without hard evidence."

"Which means this isn't about blackmail."

"Then what is it about, John?" The frustration was clear in Harold's voice as he threw his hands in the air.

"My next logical conclusion leads to kidnapping and ransom."

"Kidnapping?!"

"My guess," John said, thinking fast. "Is that they plan to kidnap someone at the end of the retreat, when no one will miss them. They can be stashed at the abandoned farm. Happy couples are more likely to pay up, than if she were to kidnap someone like Barbara, the way she seems to hate Mike so much."

"That makes too much sense."

"I know."

"So we'll just have to keep an eye on her and try to determine, based on what the other couples are saying and her reactions, which one she's targeting."

"Right, only a day and a half left to figure it out. Since we won't be solving it tonight, why don't you get some shut eye while I keep an eye on things for awhile."

"John, you need your rest too."

"Don't argue with me, Finch. I'm taking first watch."

Harold was out cold the moment his head hit the pillow.

* * *

A short time later there was a knock at the door. When John got up to answer it, he was surprised to find Damon Parris standing on the other side.

"What do you want?"

"I thought maybe after some consideration, you might have changed your mind about what we discussed earlier."

"No."

"No, you didn't change your mind? Or no, you didn't have time to reconsider yet?"

"We are not having this conversation, Mr. Parris," John said, trying on Harold's formalities with the hope it might help drive the man away.

"Please, call me Damon. And you know I can be a better lover than he can. You have to know this, what with his limping all afternoon."

"Look, my partner's sound asleep right now. I'm not interested in waking him up after the hard day he's had. Also, I would never betray him."

"But-"

"You're going to leave right now and I'm going to forget we ever had this conversation. Goodbye."

With two swift movements, John stepped back and shut the door in Damon's face, engaging the security chain and the deadbolt even though he knew anyone determined enough to get in wouldn't be bothered by either one.

He moved to check on Harold, finding him still sound asleep, though the blanket had slipped off his shoulders. John pulled the covers back up over him and sat down in the office chair to keep vigil on Harold and their surveillance.

Maybe Damon was the type of vulture that could sense his loneliness. Because... John was lonely. The problem was that he didn't want just anyone and the one person he did want, he couldn't have. It was too risky getting attached romantically to anyone viewing what he and Harold did for a living. Since Jessica's death he'd been with others. Of course he had. But they'd never lasted and he hadn't wanted them to. While they scratched an itch, they never felt quite right.

Just thinking about it made John tired. He missed true companionship, being able to hold someone close. Chris was right though, sex wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things. John had always believed that. It wasn't a bad thing. He'd had some good sex in his life. But he wanted more than that these days.

* * *

Several hours later, when it was long past midnight and John was getting ready to wake Harold up for his turn at keeping watch, Lucy sent out a text message.

"OMG, my husband is such a prick," she wrote. "I can't believe this. He thinks I'm cheating on him. Can I come see you? Are you awake?"

"I am now," came the eventual reply from Kathleen Rice. "Come on, meet me outside my room. I'm by the elevator. Maybe they still have some of those chocolate chip cookies they put out after dinner in the lobby."

Using the phone's mic, John planned to listen in on their conversation from the room. He got up to wake Harold, so they could both listen, when there was a strange thud from the hallway. He opened the door to check it out, and saw a robed woman face down on the carpet.

"Hey, are you all right? What happened?" He asked, stepping out into the hallway. He spun around when he heard a little shuffle behind him. Lucy loomed up, the blackjack raised high above her head.

"Lucy? What are you-"

"Goodbye John."

A shock of pain coursed through his head, down his torso and into his limbs. Before he could even call out Harold's name, his vision went black and he crumpled to the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 2 (Harold Finch): Chapter 6

A/N: Here we are at part two and moving right along. Thanks for the reviews, likes, and follows. I'm super glad you're enjoying this as much as I am in writing it! (All mistakes are mine.)

* * *

Harold moved into John's personal space and put his arms around him. John did the same, the heat from his hands soaking through Harold's thin shirt. He'd never danced with another man before, but he felt comfortable in John's arms. Taken care of. Safe.

John leaned in and whispered, "just watch out for my weapon."

Harold froze and his cheeks grew hot. "Weapon?"

"My Sig Saur's back there."

"Oh."

"Problem gentlemen?" the dance instructor asked, stepping in close, her dance shoes clicking on the hardwood of the dance floor.

"No. No. Not at all," Harold fumbled.

John smiled, then said, "as long as he doesn't step on my toes, we'll fine."

"Oh God," Harold looked up at John, startled by the thought. "I might do that. Dancing's never been my strong suit. Not with my injury. I apologize if I should manage to step on you."

John allowed a chuckle to escape. "You'll be fine, honey. I've been through worse."

* * *

Harold woke to the sound of an insistent chime nearby. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and glanced around him. "John?" The room appeared empty, except for himself.

The chime continued to sound until he made note of his cell phone on the nightstand alerting him to a text message. The phone number was not one he recognized, which was not a good sign as very few people had his number. In fact, only four people of note: John, of course, Detective Carter, Detective Fusco, and Will Ingram. Well, three people now, he supposed, trying not to think too hard about what that meant.

Turning on his laptop he researched the phone number to see who owned it, but it was a burner phone. Untraceable. Taking a chance, he opened the text, then let out a sound that was both high-pitched and horrified. It was a picture of John, tied to a chair. His eyes were closed, his head hung forward, and a sizable gash on his head was dribbling blood down the side of his face to drip onto his shirt.

"I have your husband," the note beneath it read. "Try any heroics, call the cops, and I will kill him. Do you understand?"

Harold swallowed the lump in his throat, then called out into the room again, hoping this was all a joke. "John?" John would be returning from the vending machine down the hall any second, he was sure of it. Or maybe he was hiding in the darkened bathroom for some strange reason. But all he heard was the whir of the air conditioning unit under the window.

"Who are you?" he typed. "What do you want?"

"Do you understand?" The person texted again.

With no other option, Harold replied, "yes."

"Good."

"How do I know he's still alive?" he asked.

His phone rang a second later. When he answered it he heard a groggy voice say, "Harold?"

"John? Are you all right?!"

"Will you be there when I get out of this current scrape?"

"Always."

The phone was hung up and a new text message came in, "You have your proof. Do as I ask, or he won't be so lucky next time."

"Of course," he replied. He'd almost added "whatever you want", but thought better of it and didn't.

He was then given instructions for wiring a sizable amount of money into an off shore bank account. "Since you seem to be John's sugar daddy, I figure you can afford the amount. Yes?"

"Yes."

Harold's fingers were now trembling, both with fear and anger. He wasn't John's sugar daddy. He hated that term and hoped John didn't see him in that way. He might have been paying John a large sum for his work, but even then, John wasn't keeping it all for himself. Most of it, Harold had noted, went to charities for the homeless, or straight into the hands of those who needed it most.

Was it just a few hours ago he and John had been reasoning that the kidnapping wouldn't happen until after the retreat was over? And why, of all the couples present, hadn't they even considered themselves a possible target? Harold shouldn't have made the comment about the lake house. Maybe that's what had drawn attention to them, and the fact that they did have a little extra spending money.

If he didn't find a way to rescue John... this could be the end Harold had feared from the beginning. But he couldn't let himself think about that. There was work to be done. He checked the location of John's cell phone. It was on the desk across the room. Glancing at it, he noticed John's Sig Saur was sitting next to it. Harold then checked the location of the burner phone. No GPS. No luck.

Then he remembered the wedding rings he and John both wore and brought up the app on his phone to track John down.

The map showed him at the abandoned farm, just like John had predicted earlier, though it couldn't get more specific than that. He could be anywhere from the house to the barn, to a storage shed somewhere... Harold shuddered.

How was he going to get there and what was he going to do once he was there?

No, what he was going to do first was wire the requested money. Maybe then he could get John back without too much fuss. Right? Right.

He played a trick on the off shore account, moving money within it to make it look like it was receiving something from his account, when in fact, it was receiving nothing new.

That done, he texted the burner phone back, "Done."

Five minutes later he received a new text, "That was too easy. Perhaps I should have asked for more money."

"You got what you asked for. Please let John go."

"Unfortunately, that's not how this works. Not until I see proof of how much you love your husband and he loves you. Because that's what this is all about, isn't it? This is why you came to a couple's retreat, yes?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"When I figure that out, I'll let you know."

"No, you tell me now!"

Harold waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming.

He brought up the photo of John again. No matter what, he knew he couldn't leave John there any longer than necessary. Harold was going to have to figure out a way to get to the farm and find John. Not willing to waste any more time, he changed back into his street clothes, grabbed the keys to the town car and was halfway out the door when he paused, hand on the light switch.

If he took the car, he would no doubt draw attention to himself, no matter how quiet the engine. If he walked, it would take him awhile to get there. Now, he couldn't be more thankful John had re-energized him some with that massage earlier in the evening. Walking, it would have to be. This way he could approach without much sound and check the scene out before he made any moves.

Expecting to be awhile, he returned to the desk and packed up his laptop and the extra strong mobile hot spot he'd built himself. He glanced at the Sig Saur again, but didn't touch it. Bringing a weapon could only make things worse. Leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder, he vacated the hotel room, took a deep breath, and set off.

* * *

Outside, the cool night air hit him like a slap in the face. He paused a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness and the direction in which he was going. He didn't think he was going to need his flashlight until he got to the tree line at the edge of the hotel's yard.

Harold began to wonder how he was going to wrap up the number. With John out of commission, he was going to have to do more than usual. If he could have called Detective Fusco for assistance, he would have. But he would need to find a local detective and before he could do that, he needed to rescue John.

He also needed to know more about the case. Who had been the one to text him? Lucy, he presumed. But maybe not. Maybe she had both Shawn and Mike wrapped around her fingers, doing her bidding. And if she did, Harold would have to be extra careful, as he was now acting alone.

John. He sent a mental message to his partner to hang in there. He was coming, even if it was going to take him a little longer than he would have liked.

"I love looking up at the stars, don't you?" A pleasant voice asked from the darkness.

Harold jumped out of his skin, almost screaming in fright. Selina materialized in the glow of a nearby solar lamp on the path to the hotel's small garden.

"So sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I thought you saw me."

"No. No I didn't." Harold had been so worried about John, he had to stop and force himself to think what he should say to Selina. Some excuse as to why he was outside in the middle of the night. That was it. An excuse. Anything would do.

"Oh," she said then, with the air of someone who'd just put the puzzle pieces together.

"Oh?"

She cocked her head to one side. "You really do have feelings for him, don't you?"

"What?" Harold was hardly keeping up with her.

"It's all over your face. You need to tell him how you feel, sweetie," she advised. Then she smiled. "I've seen the way he looks at you. That's not fake adoration at all."

Harold stood frozen to the spot, unsure how to respond.

"What's wrong, Harold? Love is a good thing, isn't it? I mean, I know you work together and that might cause some complications with the boss, but... Harold?"

He held up his phone and showed her the picture of John he'd been texted.

"Oh dear Lord! Do you know who took him? Do you know where he is?"

Harold told himself he needed the help. He couldn't do this alone. He didn't want to do this alone. He was going to have to trust her, whether he wanted to or not. Nothing in their interactions or in his hacking of all her online accounts showed that he couldn't trust her. But now there was no choice in the matter.

"Where is he sweetie?"

"He's at the farm."

"Then let's go!"

"It's going to take awhile. I can't walk very fast."

"Oh pish! The groundskeeper has a golf cart. I saw him using it earlier so I know where he keeps it. We could just borrow it for awhile." She glanced around as she spoke, checking to see if anyone was nearby listening. But at that hour of the night, who would be? Except Lucy, perhaps, if they were very, very unlucky.

Selina had been right. There was a golf cart parked in the maintenance shed not far from the garden. The shed was unlocked and the keys to the golf cart were hanging up on a pegboard just begging to be stolen for a little joy ride in the dark.

"Now Harold, you let me drive this thing," she said, grabbing the keys from his hand and jumping into the driver's seat. "You've got other things on your mind right now. But don't you worry, I'll get you there in one piece!"

The wooded path was rather bumpy with roots and stones and Selina didn't seem to know how to use the brakes. Harold held on for dear life and prayed they wouldn't blow a tire before they arrived. The ride took half the time it had taken the group to walk the same path earlier that day, and for that, at least, he was grateful.

* * *

They left the golf cart up on the hill where they'd picnicked, hidden from view from the farm should anyone be looking, and started down the gently sloping hill on foot. Stomach a tad queasy from the ride, Harold looked around the place, searching for some tell-tale sign that anyone was there, but he saw nothing, not even so much as the lit end of a cigarette in a window or by a tree. Everything was as dark as ever.

He paused to check his phone again, hiding behind a tree to keep the glow of the screen from view. It still said John's wedding ring was at the farm, and it was still just as vague as to where on the property it was.

The other problem, Harold realized, was that John might not be anywhere near his ring. His heartbeat sped up at the thought, fear coursing through him. What if the wedding ring idea failed because of something he couldn't control? The ring couldn't have fallen off. He'd made sure it was John's size. That left two other options. One, Lucy had taken the ring. Whether or not she'd figured out it's secret was another matter. Two, John had taken off his ring and left it somewhere on purpose. But where? And why?

"Come on, let's go!" Selina whispered. "I'll check the house and you check the barn. We'll meet behind that tree over there in fifteen minutes to report what we've found," she said, pointing toward a large oak tree in the middle of the yard. Harold supposed they could find a hiding spot on one side of it where they wouldn't be seen by anyone, and agreed to her plan with a nod.

"But," he said, grabbing her by the arm to stop her leaving right away. "I should tell you that we're not undercover cops or anything. We're just... ordinary citizens."

Selina gave a quiet giggle and then disappeared into the dark.

With his heart in his throat, beating so hard he was sure anyone could hear it from a mile away, Harold moved toward the barn, feeling his way in the dark by shuffling his feet a bit. He was loathe to put his flashlight on, least anyone see it and come running, so he kept it inside his messenger bag with his laptop.

Before he knew it, he was at the weathered barn door. The wood was warped, the hinges were rusty, and what little paint was left was peeling off into red snow drifts in the dead grass, just visible by the faint light of the moon. The door was open about a foot and a half, and Harold was afraid the hinges would be too squeaky if he opened it further. With a loud shriek, a heavy gust of wind blew the door wide open, making Harold almost jump out of his skin for the second time that night. He flattened himself against the outer wall, waiting for someone to emerge and find him, wondering if he had the guts to knock them out before they knocked him out.

Nothing came out to get him. Nothing emerged from the house either that he could see. His heart rate slowed down a little, though by now it didn't matter. He was a sweaty, trembling mess. The place had been abandoned for years. As the seconds ticked by he was becoming more and more sure that even now, there was no one there. He'd been led astray. Some how, John's wedding ring had been left here for him to find, or was malfunctioning enough to give him a false location. Harold wasn't sure which was worse.

Someone whistled behind him and Harold whirled around before he realized it was a bird in one of the nearby trees. He took a deep breath as he heard the whistle again. Eastern Screech-Owl, he amended. Hands still trembling, he concentrated on the sound of the owl. The Eastern Screech-Owl had a tufted head. It had yellow eyes and it's bill was a pale color. The red morph's body was a bright rusty brown mixed with grey and had streaked underparts. The grey morph's body was white and grey with some black mixed in, reminding him somewhat of a birch tree.

Calm once again, his stomach a little less queasy, Harold took a deep breath and snuck into the barn. It was dark. Quiet. Nothing moved. Not even a mouse. Everything appeared to have a thick layer of untouched dust on it. The smell was old and musty. When was the last time someone had been here?

And then he saw it. A flicker. In the far corner on the right. There was a light.

His breathing coming faster now, and his heart rate speeding up to match, Harold snuck closer, careful not to make a sound with his footsteps. As he passed each stall door, he checked inside. He couldn't see much, but instinct kept him alert to anything that could be lurking there. The light drew him on. The stalls were empty as far as he could see. But the light meant something was there. Or something had been. Or it was a trap. But if it was a trap, there was no way for him to know until he got there. And he had to know if it was John or not.

His fingers were beginning to tremble again as he reached the final box stall. He thought of the Eastern Screech-Owl again. It was a nocturnal bird that fed on insects, arachnids, crayfish, mammals, amphibians, reptiles, other birds, and fish. Its breeding habits kept it monogamous. Even with one brood per year, it was a widespread bird and very common across most of the country.

While he still felt a tiny amount of courage was left in him, Harold darted around the corner to face the flickering light before he could chicken out.

A candle sat on the floor next to an empty chair, softly illuminating the small space of the box stall. Just out of the circle of light, someone sat in a second chair, head tilted to one side. Something dark ran down the side of his face.

"John!" Harold rushed forward, his knees falling to the hard concrete floor in front of his friend, his hands reaching for John's bloody face. John was unconscious, his eyes closed, and Harold wondered then how he would get John out of this place in this condition.

He brushed some of the blood away from John's forehead with his thumb, enough to realize the cut wasn't as bad as he'd feared. It was mostly blood that had started to clot.

"Oh John..."

Footsteps on gravel outside the barn had Harold scurrying away, while his heart tugged at him to stay with John. He managed to get into the next box stall as someone walked into the barn, heavy boots clunking on the floor.

"Harold?" John's voice came to him then, groggy and quiet. "Are you there?"

He should have stayed! Harold clutched both hands to his chest to keep himself still. In the aisle he saw the vague outline of a woman walking past carrying something that resembled a travel mug in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

"I'm here," she said, and he recognized Lucy's voice.

"Good." Shawn, her husband, was on the other end of the phone, which meant she had the phone on speaker and he wasn't present with her. Harold shuddered a quiet sigh in relief over that. Now he could hear both sides of the conversation and there was a chance he could take out Lucy if he had to without Shawn there.

"Lucy?" John asked.

Between the slats in the stall wall, Harold watched as Lucy put down her travel mug. The slapjack appeared in her hand, though he wasn't sure where she'd kept it, and she hit John over the head with it. John slumped forward with a grunt.

Harold shut his eyes tight trying hard not to freak out and scream at her.

"What was that?" Shawn asked over the phone.

"Just using the slapjack again, honey."

"Are you sure we didn't bite off more than we can chew with this one? I'm not sure we can manage a second hostage, and a man at that. I watched him handle his husband during the obstacle course. He's very capable."

Wait. Second hostage? What did that mean? Was there someone else here?

"Well he's not capable right now and his husband was never very capable that I could see, so I think we're fine."

"Yes, but when we let him go, what happens then? He saw you with Kathleen Rice. He's a liability. We should just throw him in the Hudson, grab the Rice's money, and get out of here."

Now the picture was beginning to clear up. He and John hadn't been the intended targets all along. Harold wasn't sure if he was relieved to know that or not, because now it wasn't just John that needed rescuing. He was going to have to get Kathleen out of here too, wherever she was. And he was now even more aware that this time, as he had predicted to John several years ago, they might both turn out "actually dead". Recalling his earlier words, as well as those of Lucy moments ago, his resolve to rescue John grew harder. He would not lose such a dear friend.

On the phone, Shawn continued to complain, "You and I can't be split up between hostages like this. What if Charles comes after his wife even though you told him not to? He's certainly more capable than Harold."

"Shawn, would you shut the fuck up and let me think?!" Lucy's voice rose in anger as she berated her husband for not trusting in her abilities to know what she was doing. "What do you think Don was going on about earlier today?! Trust me, damn it!"

While she yelled into the phone, Harold took the opportunity to slip out of the barn. Even with Shawn somewhere else, he had a feeling he was going to need help dealing with Lucy. After all, she was armed with a slapjack and he had nothing.

At the tree, he found Selina waiting for him.

"I didn't find your John, but I did find Kathleen, of all people," she said. "She seems fine, but she's tied to a chair in the livingroom with Shawn not too far away on that dusty old thing I think was a couch once. Guy's sitting so gingerly on it, as if it might explode should he either get too comfortable or get up." She whispered a laugh, then stopped when she saw Harold's face. "You found him, didn't you?"

"Yes," Harold croaked, his throat dry. "He's in the barn and Lucy's with him. I..."

"Wait here," Selina said with determination. "This problem is no match for two of us. We need help!" With that, she stormed back up the hill. A moment later Harold could hear the quiet engine of the golf cart start up and drive away.


	7. Chapter 7

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 2 (Harold Finch): Chapter 7

A/N: Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. It turned out to be a lot harder to edit than I'd initially thought it would be. All errors are mine. I hope it lives up to, and perhaps exceeds, your expectations. Reviews are welcome and much appreciated! There is a small reference to "Many Happy Returns" (S01E21) and "Bad Code" (S02E02) in this chapter, should anyone be interested.

* * *

Harold moved back to the other side of the barn, closer to the stall where John was being held. He didn't think Lucy had anything other than a slapjack as a weapon, but he couldn't be sure. He needed to be close to John just in case something happened. There was a shed on that side of the barn with an open doorway. In one corner were a few rotted logs sized for a wood burning stove or maybe a fire pit. The shed was deep enough that Harold could hide inside without being seen, and yet be close enough to John that he could hear the muffled voice of Lucy on the phone to her husband.

Gingerly sitting on the most decent log he could find, he used his laptop and the hotspot to begin gathering all the evidence he had on Lucy into one document. If he was lucky, he could show up with the evidence and use it to barter for John's life, as well as that of Mrs. Rice.

He then wondered if he should have moved to the house, to keep an eye on her. Surely John, even in his state, could take care of himself. Better than Mrs. Rice could anyway. But the more Harold moved around, the more likely he was to get caught, so he stayed put.

On the other side of the wall John was quiet while Lucy talked intermittently with Shawn. Harold hoped John was conscious again and was staying silent to keep himself alive.

He remembered John saying no one would want to kidnap a woman as angry with her husband as Barbara was. That meant one of two things: Barbara and Mike had been happy once. Happy enough that Lucy figured Mike would pay up to get his wife back. Or Lucy was trying to get them back together somehow. Which, upon reflection, didn't make much sense, except that the text message Harold had gotten almost proved it to be true.

If Lucy and Shawn didn't usually kill their victims, there had to be another reason Harold had gotten Lucy's number from The Machine. If she wasn't the perpetrator then she had to be the intended victim. They had been so sure she was the criminal, they hadn't looked into any other possibilities. And while it seemed obvious who would want her dead, it was most likely too late to do thorough enough research to be absolutely sure.

Harold rubbed his forehead in an attempt to stave off a headache at the thought that they'd been so stupid. There was nothing he could do now but wait and see what happened and protect Mrs. Rice and John to the best of his abilities.

He hacked into the hotel's reservation system and set them up in a new room with new identities, making it appear that they'd taken the room the day before. He and John would now be Horace and Joan Hawk. They would vacate their original room as soon as they got back to the hotel. The way John was bleeding, Harold wanted to be sure he was well taken care of before they left.

 _"I'm a monster and you're afraid of me..."_ John's words came roaring back to him in the silence, reminding him of a similar conversation they'd had a few years before:

 _"What will you do, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked._

 _"Show him what a real monster looks like," John said, with an angry, determined glint in his eyes._

 _You are NOT a monster,_ Harold thought to John. _And I WILL get you out of this._

 _"You need to tell him how you feel, sweetie. I've seen the way he looks at you. That's not fake adoration at all."_

Could Selina's words have been true? Did John really feel the same way?

Two years ago John had picked Harold up off a train station floor and made extra sure he was unhurt. Relief had flooded through Harold at that reassuring touch. Only yesterday John had caught him before he could fall off the obstacle course and held him steady on the walk back to the hotel. And there was no forgetting the massage John had given him that night. Never had Harold felt so safe and well cared for.

Don Hartwicke had talked to the group about trust in your partner just before they'd set off on their long walk in the woods. Now, Harold wondered how he could trust John with his life, but not with his emotions. He didn't recall ever trusting anyone as much as he trusted John. Maybe Nathan, but certainly no one else. Was this why John had suggested Harold hated the monster within him? Because he was trying, like a desperate idiot, to protect their working relationship by staying away, when all he really wanted was to be as close to John as possible.

When they got themselves out of this situation, Harold was going to have to tell John the truth. He was going to have to tell him about the loneliness that plagued him at all hours of the night and day, about how much he needed to be touched, held close, to feel wanted by someone who could be safe in his unsafe world, someone who wanted the same things from him in return. He could never be 100% sure Grace would be okay with his feelings for John, but he thought she might forgive him this if she could understand the situation he was in. He hoped she would.

As for John, what had he thought he would do or say, if he admitted the truth of his feelings? Had he really thought John would leave him to handle the numbers alone? He knew John, sometimes better than he thought John knew himself. Why had he thought these things about his friend?

 _John, I'm an idiot. Will you ever forgive me?_

In the past, John had always been the one to rescue him from rough situations. This time, Harold would be the one to rescue John. And if he had to do it alone, then he would. Whatever it took, he would find a way.

* * *

A short while later, Harold heard the unmistakable sound of a drunken great horned owl. He packed up his laptop and went out to the tree where he'd last seen Selina, wondering who she'd gotten to help them. The cops would have been preferred. The identities of Harold and John Rinch were solid enough to pass muster with law enforcement in a pinch. Who he was not expecting were the two lesbian couples, Alexis and Genevieve Winters-Brown and Robyn and Marjorie Borich.

"I couldn't sleep," Alexis explained before Harold could even ask. "Selina found me wandering around in the gardens and asked if I wanted to help. I woke the others. Figured the more the merrier!"

Right.

Harold kept his hands on his messenger bag where he wouldn't be tempted to rub at his headache.

"Oh Harold, stop worrying!" Selina spoke up. "I called the cops first thing when I got back. Problem is, it's going to take them awhile to get here. Some nut with a gun climbed up a tree and won't come down. Apparently he's got his wife with him and they've got him surrounded. There's been a standoff for hours. I figured we might have to solve this one on our own. At least for now. We can present them with the evidence and the perpetrators when they get here."

Maybe this was a good thing. It could provide Harold enough time to get John, and get them both out of there before anyone could ask any questions.

"Besides, I assumed four farm girls would be able to handle one woman and her husband," Selina grinned. "We've got this, Harold!"

"Exactly," Marjorie piped up. "Let us help."

The four women gave him serious expressions. Thinking of John tied up, blood dripping down his face, Harold knew he needed all the help he could get just then. And they did look very capable of helping out, even if he was loathe to get innocent civilians involved.

"Just... promise me no violence. Please."

Selina snorted. "After what they did to John?!"

"We'll do our best," Genevieve said with a curt nod.

* * *

At the door to the barn, Harold paused to run over the facts of his favorite bird, the purple finch, with its raspberry-colored plumage, calming himself as much as he could in the span of a few seconds. He took a deep breath and slipped into the barn. He kept his footfalls as silent as possible so as not to alert Lucy to his presence until he was standing in the opening to the box stall at the far end of the aisle.

Lucy's head jolted up from the screen of her phone, where it appeared she'd been playing some sort of matching game. She stared at Harold, her mouth agape. Still tied to the other chair, John was awake, his eyes blinking at Harold in the dim candlelight. He started to shake his head, then winced, and didn't finish the movement.

"I'd hoped you'd stay safe," John said, his voice even softer than usual. "I didn't want you to attempt a rescue operation."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that, John." As Harold spoke, the five women came up to stand behind him, an immovable wall.

"What... the hell?" Lucy asked, still radiating shock.

John gave a faint smile and Harold assumed the women were looking fierce behind him.

"This is a rescue operation," Harold intoned. "John, how are you feeling?"

John didn't say anything for a moment, taking stock of his situation. "Dizzy. Nauseous. Headache. Scratch that. Splitting headache. I think she took an ax to my head."

"It was only a slapjack," Lucy confirmed. "How did you find us?"

"Planting a bug on someone shows you care, right John?" Harold asked with a raised eyebrow.

"But is it really planting a bug if I wore it willingly?"

It was Harold's turn to smile. John still had his sense of humor. That was a good thing.

Lucy stood up then. "Harold, you did good picking this one out. Hottie movie star looks and loyal to a fault. But, what do you say, John? I saw you watching the other women earlier and pushing Damon away every time he tried to force himself on you. Why don't we cut a deal. You and me and a beach in the tropics and all of your lame husband's money? I bet all you saw in Harold was the green of his bank account. I certainly wouldn't see anything else in him."

"If that's what you think, you don't know anything at all."

"Don't I?"

"Harold saved my life once, when I thought I didn't have one any more. That's more than anyone else has ever done for me."

"So you married your superhero? I didn't realize there were rules about that." Lucy took a step away from Harold but didn't let him, or the ladies behind him, out of her sight.

"Yes, and I think my superhero is attempting to rescue me, so," John winced again. "I'm going to let him carry on."

* * *

A/N: I was once on a ride-along with a deputy in North Carolina. Earlier that day the police had broken up a hostage situation involving a man and his family. The husband/father had escaped, and was in a forest, armed. The police had him surrounded and hours were passing by. While I was on the ride-along I got to see the map with the locations of the police cars surrounding him. I was told we were not allowed to answer any calls unless there was no other choice because there was no backup. Needless to say, it as a quiet ride-along, but still fun. I did the ride-along as part of the Writer's Police Academy. Google it. It's awesome!


	8. Chapter 8

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 2 (Harold Finch): Chapter 8

* * *

Harold held up the leather messenger bag still slung over his shoulder. "I know all about your schemes," he told Lucy. "I've found records of your bank transactions with all of your victims. You tend to favor couples retreats, don't you?"

Lucy looked down at her phone. "Shawn, get down here. Now!"

"Coming sweetheart," Shawn said over the phone.

Harold turned when he felt the wall of women shift behind him. Selina was nodding toward the barn door and both Marjorie and Robyn were following her back down the isle, leaving him with Alexis and Genevieve. He stood his ground again, facing Lucy.

"I only want John back in one piece. I have evidence against you on a thumb drive. I will give it to you if you will let John go and we let this matter drop. I won't call the police on you."

Lucy shook her head, set her phone down on the chair, and picked up the slapjack. She stepped closer to John. Harold balled his hands into fists. He needed her to move as far away from John as possible. The sooner the better.

"You don't understand," she began. "When I was a small child, all my parents ever did was argue about the money we didn't have. They didn't see that money wasn't what we needed. We already had everything we needed. Now, I spend my time convincing other couples that money isn't what they need. Most of them are more than happy to agree once they realize the truth. I can get them back together faster than any retreat can. Because once you take money out of the equation, it lightens everyone's hearts so that romance can blossom once again."

Was she being completely serious, or sarcastic? It was hard to tell. Harold's own heart hammered in his chest as sweat ran down his face to drip onto the collar of his already soaked shirt. How on earth was he going to-

"No you don't!" a new voice came rushing in at them. "This crazy bitch won't get away with that!"

Harold jerked around to see Barbara pushing her way into the box stall, waving a gun while everyone stared at her with shocked expressions. Where had she come from? How had she gotten there?

"Shawn?" Lucy asked at her phone, her voice still calm and collected. "Where the hell are you?"

"Did you honestly think you could get away with this little scheme again? I want my money back, bitch. But you can keep my stupid ass husband. I can't believe he slept with you. How was that supposed to get us back together?"

Lucy chuckled, unconcerned by the weapon in the room. "Your husband slept with me to lower the price on your head. It was his idea. I shouldn't have gone along with it, seeing as how your relationship is now in shambles. But, honestly, I couldn't resist the way he asked."

Barbara growled in her throat, focusing the barrel of the gun on Harold, then one of the women behind him, before settling it on Lucy, who sipped at her travel mug with casual grace.

Things had been different when it was just Lucy and her slapjack. Now the lives of the women behind Harold were in serious danger. It was bad enough he'd dragged John into this life three years earlier. He was trained for this. But these ladies were innocent civilians and Harold didn't want them getting hurt. He never should have agreed to their help.

Just behind Lucy, John's eyelids were drooping closed, then he startled himself awake when his chin fell to his chest, blinking hard to keep his eyes open. His face had grown pale and waxy. Was his skin turning green? Harold couldn't be sure in the dim light.

"Stop!" Harold yelled with all his might. He was only a few yards away from John, yet he felt as if there was an ocean full of crocodiles and sharks between them.

"You're not going to get away with this," Genevieve said. "Neither of you."

Barbara aimed the gun at her, and cocked it. "You! Shut up!" She gestured with the weapon for the three of them to enter the stall where they could be seen better in the faint candlelight. Harold was still too far away from John to be of any help to him.

Lucy, unwilling to set down her weapon, was juggling the slapjack and phone in one hand and holding her travel mug in the other while dialing a new number.

"Your wife is trying to kill me, Mike," Lucy explained, when the phone was picked up on the other end.

"What?" Mike sounded tired and confused.

Barbara swung the gun back to Lucy and knocked her travel mug out of her hand. The mug went skewing toward John, smashing against the arm of his chair. The lid popped off, and the hot liquid contents spewed all over John's black polo shirt. John gasped, then clamped his mouth shut, as the fabric soaked up the coffee.

"Barbara?" Mike called over the phone. "What are you doing? What's going on?"

The box stall was fast becoming close and confining with so many people crowded into it. The strong scent of coffee permeated the air, almost overpowering the rotten wood, moldering hay, and the sharp stink of sweat. But not quite.

"I want my money, bitch."

"That's it!" Harold shoved past both women, uncaring where the gun was aimed. Yanking on a dry patch of fabric, Harold pulled John's shirt from his waistband and held it away from his chest to cool.

John's jaw was clenched tight as he kept his eyes on Barbara, now behind Harold.

"Are you okay?" Harold asked, noting that John's skin color may have been a bit pale and waxy, but at least it didn't appear green up close.

"Yeah. Fine. You know how much I love a hot coffee shower," John ground out between his teeth.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Just then, Robyn and Marjorie Borich reappeared holding Shawn up between them. He was sporting a limp and an eye that was quickly turning purple. Following them was Kathleen and Selina. They high-fived each other, and Kathleen rubbed at her knuckles.

"God, that felt good!" Kathleen exclaimed.

"What the hell happened to you?!" Lucy asked her husband, switching the phone to her empty hand and taking a step toward him.

"They got the drop on me when I left the house. What's going on here?"

"Well, Harold's trying to rescue John from our apparently evil clutches, and Barbara is trying to kill me for what we did last year. Though, Mike didn't seem to mind when I rode him hard earlier this evening. Isn't that right, Mike?"

Barbara screamed something wild and untamed, launching herself at Lucy. She began pummeling the other woman with her fists, then with the butt of the gun.

Mike could be heard shouting for his wife to calm down as Lucy's phone went sailing through the air and smashed against the wall behind her. Mike's voice cut off mid-word.

Lucy uttered a loud grunt as she hit Barbara in the head with her slapjack, again and again.

Harold spied a rake, somewhat hidden in the deep shadows at the back of the stall, and grabbed it with trembling hands. He slipped in front of John to shield him from the others, determined to protect him at any cost, despite the terror taking hold and the awkward weight of his messenger bag dragging on his shoulder. For John, Harold would do anything.

Alexis reached for Barbara, grabbed her arm, and attempted to haul her off Lucy.

"For an entire year I had nightmares about being kidnapped!" Barbara yelled, struggling to free herself from the woman's strong grip. "Nightmares! I had to wait an entire year before we were in the same place again so I could exact my revenge against you and I don't intend on botching this up now! Let me go!" Barbara wrenched her arm free and went after Lucy again, who'd paused to catch her breath.

Genevieve, meanwhile, had snuck up behind Lucy and plucked the slapjack from her lose grip.

"You lay off my wife!" Shawn yelled, pushing Marjorie and Robyn away and rushing into the fray as best he could with his limp.

Dark shadows lurched across the walls with reaching arms that were easily the length of the stall. Here, were the real monsters, Harold thought.

Barbara's gun went skittering across the floor, to stop at Lucy's feet. Lucy picked it up. When she straightened up she was looking right at Harold. "You know too much," she said, aiming the gun at him. "You all know too much!"

He smacked her on the head with the rake handle as hard as he could. The handle reverberated in his hands, and up his arms to his shoulders. Lucy was still standing, her eyes squinting in anger and her face flushing a dark red.

Harold smiled a little at the sight of her now empty hands. She looked down at her open palms, then spun around, eyes wide, in search of the weapon amongst the shuffling feet of eleven other people in the small space.

"Give me that!" Genevieve reached for the rake and Harold let her have it, taking the small slapjack from her.

He then reached back to steady himself on John's shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and watched as Genevieve began wielding the rake like a pro Ninjutsu martial artist. She jabbed it between Shawn and Barbara, breaking the two up with several well placed strikes to their stomachs and foreheads. Marjorie grabbed hold of Barbara, twisting her arms behind her back, a length of rope ready to hold her in place.

Robyn and Kathleen both reached for Shawn. He shuffled to evade them, but wasn't fast enough to evade the candle still feebly lighting the room. Darkness swallowed them whole within seconds.


	9. Chapter 9

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 2 (Harold Finch & John Reese): Chapter 9

* * *

"Stop! Everyone please stop," Harold yelled.

Someone groaned and there was a lot of heavy breathing.

"Gen?" Alexis called out.

"Here."

"Damn, that really hurts," Shawn hissed. "What if my ankle's broken?"

"Serves you right," Selina said, her voice dripping with derision. "It's no one's fault but yours that you twisted it in the first place."

"Marjorie?"

"I'm here, Robyn."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shawn asked.

"I'll let you think on it a bit. Maybe it'll come to you."

Harold gripped John's shoulder, thankful his partner was still there and still alive. He hoped.

"John? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," John said. "This headache's a killer though."

"We'll get you out of here soon."

"Does anyone have a flashlight?" Selina asked.

A light flicked on. Genevieve was holding her phone up so everyone could see what was going on.

Harold moved around John. "Shine that over here, if you would." When she came over to him, he busied himself untying John's wrists.

"No! No, you don't get to escape that easily!" Lucy screamed, still frantically searching the floor for the gun.

"Yeah? And neither do you!" Barbara had her fists up, ready to go at Lucy again.

"Girls!" Alexis called in her best teacher voice. "Girls, calm down!"

Harold was now ignoring them as he slung one of John's arms over his shoulders and helped him to stand up. John was leaning most of his weight on him.

More cell phone flashlights turned on and the box stall lit up like stars in the night sky. Marjorie was trying to hold Barbara back while Robyn gripped Lucy's wrists, her knuckles turning white.

"Aww, let them go at it," Shawn complained. "After what you did to me, I need to see a good cat fight to lift my spirits."

One well-placed punch from Alexis had him sprawled on the floor, writhing in agony and clutching at his nose.

"That's enough out of you," she said.

"I could really go for some of those chocolate chip cookies they put out after dinner," Kathleen said, holding the gun by the trigger guard. "Think they'll still have some for us when we get back?"

"Considering it's almost time for breakfast, I highly doubt it."

Harold glanced down at his watch and did a double take at the time. Dawn was fast approaching. If he and John were going to get out of there without being seen by the cops, they were going to have to move fast. Chances were good the standoff would have ended by now or was going to end soon and the police would be on their way to the farm.

"Have we got enough rope for the job?" Selina asked.

"Yep," Genevieve said. "Saw several coils in the old tack room down the aisle."

"Good. Let's split these three up into different stalls. Tie their ankles too so they can't escape."

"Right. Move 'em and hog tie 'em!"

Lucy and Barbara were dragged out of the stall, still trying to claw at each other.

"My nose! You broke my nose!" Shawn was yelling, his voice coming out like he had a cold as he was hauled to his feet.

"What did we say about things being your fault?"

His arms were brought behind his back, and his wrists were tied before he was pushed out the doorway, hopping on his one good foot and groaning the entire way.

"If you're looking to get out of here before the cops show up, Harold, now would be a good time," Selina said, as Alexis came back, dusting off her hands.

Alexis looked John up and down by the light of her phone. "You look like you could use some first aid supplies. There's some in my suitcase, if you want my room key. I'd better stay here to keep an eye on those bozos. But you're welcome to anything I have that you need."

"Thank you," Harold said. "That would be much appreciated."

"Don't worry, we'll keep both of you out of our reports to the cops. As far as we're concerned, you were never here," Selina confirmed.

"Oh, never here?" Alexis asked, an odd lilt to her voice. "Goodness me! I must be talking to myself!" She handed Harold her room key, and danced out of the box stall with a laugh.

Selina helped Harold get John to the golf cart. Before he started the engine, she leaned in and said "Don't forget to tell him how you feel, sweetie." She winked at him, and then was gone, hurrying back down the hill toward the barn.

Police sirens were approaching in the distance and a pale light had started to glow in the east.

* * *

Back at the hotel, Harold left John sitting on the steps in the stairwell with his head resting against the wall.

"I'm so sorry to bother you at such an early hour," Harold said to the clerk at the front desk, with as much sincerity as he could muster. "But I couldn't sleep and I seem to have locked myself out of our room while I was wandering around outside. As I'd rather not wake my wife, would you be so kind as to give me another room key. I'm Horace Hawk. Room 302."

It was that easy.

Once they were ensconced in their new room with their suitcases and some of Alexis's medical supplies, he put out the Do Not Disturb sign and got to work assessing John's injuries.

While he worked at cleaning up the blood, he worried about doing as Selina had suggested. When was the right time to tell John the truth? Should he wait until John was feeling better? What if he had a concussion? That could take a long time to heal. Was he just putting it off if he did that?

Maybe he should keep his mouth forever shut on the issue after all.

John hissed as Harold pressed the warm washcloth to the cut on his forehead, bringing Harold back to the present.

"I'm sorry. Did I press too hard?"

"No. It's fine."

"Is the Tylenol kicking in yet?"

"It's hard to tell. Maybe."

Harold thought about what he knew of concussions and began to catalog John's symptoms in his head:

Persistent headache? Check. He remembered John mentioning a bad headache several times already that night.

Fatigue? Check. John was still having trouble keeping his eyes open.

Nausea? Check. John had felt nauseous on the ride back and Harold had had to stop the cart until John felt well enough to keep going.

Light sensitivity? Check. John had asked to keep the lights dim when Harold had returned from picking up their supplies.

Those were enough symptoms to make Harold worry as he placed bandages on several open wounds around John's head. If they'd been closer, Harold might have embraced him for a moment in gratitude that nothing worse had befallen his good friend.

"When do you want to leave?" John asked when Harold knelt to help him take his shoes off. "We should set the alarm."

"I'm almost positive you have a concussion, Mr. Reese," Harold murmured. "I think we'll be staying here at least another twenty-four hours until you're ready for the long drive back."

"What about the other numbers?"

"You won't be handling any numbers for awhile, so don't worry about them. I'm sure Ms. Shaw and Ms. Groves can handle them if any pop up."

Once John was sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but his pajama bottoms, Harold held out the container of aloe vera for him to plaster it on his reddened chest.

"Concussions can take up to three weeks to heal, Harold. You know that right?"

"John," Harold paused a moment to gather his strength. "You will rest until you are ready to go back to work. Not when you think you're ready. When you're actually ready. I don't know yet where we'll end up staying once we leave here, but very likely we'll go somewhere else so you can keep resting. You need plenty of it."

John gave him a perfunctory smile. "Thanks, doc. I think."

Harold then had to wonder where he would take John. He hadn't thought that far ahead. Could he sleep on John's couch? Or could he allow John into his personal life and let him sleep in his guest room? Or was a neutral safe house better?

"I think my headache might be starting to go away."

"Good. Why don't you get some sleep then? I've got some things I need to take care of."

His body wanted nothing more than to sink back into the mattress and get some rest himself, but instead, Harold found his laptop and pulled it from his bag. His hands were trembling. His back and shoulders ached. His brain felt fuzzy.

He needed to email the case notes he had on Lucy to the local law enforcement. He would do that first. It was important. Very important.

"Come to bed," John said, still sitting where Harold had left him. "You need your rest too." He touched Harold's arm as he walked by, the light pressure sending tingles up Harold's arm.

Their eyes met for a brief second before Harold forced himself to look away. He wasn't ready to tell John the truth. Not yet. His heart was pounding in fright. This wasn't the time. Was it? Surely John wouldn't turn him away or leave him, but regardless, it wouldn't go right if he told him now... or... ever.

The laptop shook in his hands and he realized just how exhausted and scared he was. He hugged it to his chest to keep the trembling at bay. This couldn't be happening. Not now.

John's eyes sharpened, piercing into him, and Harold wondered how much he could see, how much he already knew without Harold having to utter a single word. Oh... God...

John gently slid the laptop from his loosening grip. He set it on the floor, and placed his hands on Harold's hips, pulling him to stand between his legs. John leaned in close and Harold felt a tentative brushing of John's lips against his. He gasped, his spine tingling, his mouth frozen in an O.

"Come to bed," John whispered, their faces mere inches from each other.

John's smile was small but his eyes were warm and soft in the dim light. Harold found it difficult to turn away.

"John? What...? Are you... are you sure...?" He couldn't breathe. John hadn't just... Had he?

"I haven't thrown up yet."

And with that, Harold's shock momentarily subsided. "Well, that's certainly a pleasant thought."

John stared down at their feet for a moment. "Sorry. That came out all wrong. I meant because of the concussion. Not the... I just... I wanted to show you how I... We can talk about it in the morning."

Then he sat up straighter. "Look, Barbara will tell the cops everything. They don't need you to solve the mystery for them." John blinked several times at Harold, then shook his head and blinked some more. "At least not right away."

"What's wrong?" Harold asked, his body pinging with tension again, alert to the possibility that John might need a hospital after all.

"You went blurry just then."

Vision problems? Check.

"That'll be the concussion. How are you feeling otherwise?"

"I'm fine. Please come to bed and get some rest."

"Can I get changed first?"

"Of course."

In the bathroom, Harold wasn't sure whether to take his time undressing and brushing his teeth or if he should be rushing his way through his nightly routine. He stared at himself in the mirror, his fingers brushing over his parted lips. John had kissed him. Hadn't he? Harold didn't think he'd been dreaming.

The knowledge made his heart beat faster as he returned to the bed, and he prayed that everything he was feeling: hope, fear, excitement, and nervousness, wouldn't show up on his face.

John had already crawled under the covers, but his facial expression was unreadable. Then Harold had another thought as he climbed awkwardly into bed on the other side: What would John make of his injuries? He was likely considered damaged goods. Except that John had kissed him first. So maybe he was okay with it. It wasn't like John didn't know anything about him.

What if John wanted more from him than he was prepared to give? He hadn't let himself think about this for a long time, telling himself they wouldn't even get to the part where they declared feelings beyond friendship. Now he was faced with the possibility he would have to turn John down.

Once Harold was settled on his side of the bed, John turned out the light and darkness descended on them like a blanket being thrown over their heads.

Moments passed, turning into long minutes, that turned into what, Harold didn't know. He lay stiffly on his back with his arms at his sides. All he could think about was the soft brush of John's lips against his and what it meant. Because it could only mean one thing. It wasn't like Harold didn't want it. He wanted nothing more. But he would have to say no. They were bound to be incompatible. He was also technically John's boss.

Harold's breathing increased and his fingers continued their trembling from earlier. His heart was set on pounding its way out of his chest. He clasped his hands together over his stomach and stared in the direction of the popcorn ceiling, as a way to calm himself, though it wasn't working very well.

Beside him, John was radiating so much heat it was at once comforting and obscene. His own body heat seemed to be dropping as he shivered, involuntarily. He could hear a sigh as John let out a deep breath he'd been holding in.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Harold admitted.

John turned his head to face him and Harold's breath caught in his throat when John's hand found his and held it tight.

"What are you thinking about?"

Harold struggled to breathe. This wasn't fair to John with his concussion. He needed to get himself under control. John's hand squeezed his and the breath wheezed out of him. "Nothing... I... I... Is this okay?"

"Only if you want it to be."

The air conditioning roared in Harold's ears. The sterile hotel smell filled his nostrils. The darkness closed in, surrounding him almost completely, except for the sliver of daylight at the curtained window. The warmth from John's hand slowly spread up his arm and down into the core of his body. Or maybe that was just them sharing a bed together for the first time.

"I'm scared," Harold blurted out.

He shuddered, willing the entire world to drop away from him, to leave him alone. How could he have admitted that out loud? To John, of all people.

"Of what?" John was quiet, but insistent.

"Everything." No control over his words at all. What was happening to him?

"Me too."

That caught Harold off guard. "What?" He looked over at John.

John turned fully onto his side to face him better, his hand slipping from Harold's. The loss of John's warmth and the comfort it had brought overwhelmed Harold, until John reached out with his other hand and took hold of him once again.

"You wouldn't talk to me for so long, I didn't know what was wrong. I still don't. I'm terrified of losing you."

"Losing me?" Now Harold was confused. "What do you mean?"

"I..." John stopped, swallowed. "Would you tell me if you were sick and dying?"

"Would I tell you...? But I'm not..."

John relaxed, the deep furrows on his forehead smoothing out. Harold hadn't realized how tight and drawn he'd been until then.

"Did you really think...?" Now it was Harold's turn to shift and face John. He placed a hand on John's cheek, feeling the rough stubble and the warm skin beneath.

"I don't know what to think."

It was now or never. He took a deep breath. "The term is bi-romantic asexual," Harold said, and he thought he heard a tremor in his voice. This could either blow up in his face, like it had several times before, or... it wouldn't. "But you probably don't understand what it means. No one ever does. No one except Grace."

He shut his eyes tight, keeping the truth at bay for as long as possible. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how John would take it.

"All the romance without the sex. I know." John's voice was soft and soothing with a note of understanding.

Harold could only blink at him.

"I wasn't born in the stone age, Harold. Besides, sex isn't as important to me as it is to others. I can go either way," he admitted.

Relief flooded Harold's veins. He felt a little light headed and closed his eyes again.

"Harold?" John gave his hand another gentle squeeze. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he gulped out.

"Come here."

Harold let himself be enveloped in John's strong arms.

"I would do anything for you. You know that, right?"

Harold's throat closed and his eyes stung. "Thank you," he managed to whisper.

"You did good tonight. I know not many see it, but you're the strongest, bravest person I know." John placed a kiss to the top of his head. "And I'm not just talking about what happened tonight."

* * *

Harold didn't remember falling asleep.

Upon waking, he found himself spooning John from behind, his right arm holding John around his waist. What the hell was he doing? He needed to move his arm. He couldn't move his arm. He didn't want to move his arm.

Then he recalled their conversation the night before and how accepting John had been. He forced himself to take deep breaths. This was nothing to freak out over. John was a friend. A good friend. No. Apparently he was now more than a good friend. There had been a kiss. John had kissed him. Maybe he would be able to soothe the ache in Harold's chest, and fill the void loneliness had installed in him like a computer virus.

John continued to sleep, unaware of Harold's internal thoughts going awry again. John had all but assured him it would be okay and he had to trust that John was telling the truth. Harold slowed his breathing, counting out the seconds, until he was no longer thinking about their new relationship and was calm again.

John's bandages had held throughout their nap. Harold made a mental note to check his injuries when he woke up. He then glanced at the clock on the nightstand over John's shoulder, to discover that they'd slept through the afternoon.

His stomach grumbled. And no wonder. The last time either of them had eaten was at dinner the night before, which seemed like it had been several days ago instead of twenty-four hours. He'd gotten the vegetarian option, which, while not terrible, hadn't been great either. It also hadn't helped that his stomach was in knots over everything that was happening, including his feelings for John. He hadn't eaten much. Until he'd found John's dinner in front of him and John eating his stuffed peppers as if nothing had happened.

He gave John's chest a little squeeze, resting his cheek on John's shoulder for a moment, taking in the smell of him: a faint antiseptic scent, aloe vera, sweat, and something else that was just John, something that reminded Harold how comforting and safe this man was. There was a flutter in his stomach he hadn't felt since that day he'd asked Grace to marry him.

Grace. He could only hope she was happy in Italy and that she would be okay with his decision to move on without her.

While John slept on, Harold eased out of bed, and went in search of the hotel's restaurant menu.

* * *

Harold stepped out of the bathroom a short while later to John calling his name, though he was still in bed, his eyelids at half-mast. Harold was just easing a fresh polo shirt over his head after a quick shower.

"How are you feeling?" Harold asked.

"Better. I think. Could use some more Tylenol though."

"Let me get you a glass of water."

When John had taken the pills, he lay back in the bed with a sigh of contentment.

"I ordered us two bacon cheese burgers for dinner and chocolate mousse for dessert. I hope that's all right?"

John smiled up at him, lazily caressing Harold's hand with his forefinger, his touch making the top of Harold's head prickle. "A man after my own heart."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

It felt too good to be touched so casually, leaving Harold unsure what to say or do next.

"Dinner will be here soon. Do you want to shower first?"

"I suppose that would be a good idea."

What a mood killer he was. Harold turned to find his shoes just for something to do. It wasn't like he needed to wear them in the hotel room or anything. John grabbed his hand and pulled him back as he got out of bed.

He pecked Harold on the cheek. "Relax, it's just dinner."

"Sorry," Harold mumbled. "Just nerves, I guess."

John gave him a quick smile and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

 _John Reese_

* * *

John had never been so grateful for lights with a dimmer switch in his life. He hadn't been looking for a romantic dinner setting, but he supposed he could disguise his light sensitivity as a need for romance, if Harold didn't already know about his concussion and all of his symptoms. Still, he would take light sensitivity over the ringing in his ears that had only recently stopped, and the continuous headache for sure.

John placed his hand over Harold's on the small dinner cart that had been set up in their room as a table. Startled, Harold glanced over at him.

"I will warn you right now," John said. "I'm not good with this whole resting thing. I never have been. I'm likely to get bored and restless."

Harold gave him a knowing smile. "I'm prepared."

"You are?"

"Yes. While you were sleeping, I snuck down to the library and picked up a book I thought you would like."

Where on earth did John start with that sentence? "There's a library here?"

"Of course you wouldn't have noticed it," Harold smirked. "It's next to the fitness center on the first floor. It's small. Just a few armchairs and two small bookcases filled with whatever people leave behind. But it's better than nothing. Besides, they had something I think you'll like."

"What did you find?"

"It's a story about King Arthur told from Merlin's point of view. _The Crystal Cave_ by Mary Stewart."

"And how am I supposed to read it with this concussion?"

"I didn't say you would be doing the reading, did I?"

John felt his face flush. No one had ever... not that he could remember. He thought back as far as he could go, but neither of his adoptive parents had been big into books.

Harold turned his hand over and squeezed John's. "Eat your dessert."

John cursed his watery smile, his emotions showing more than he'd intended, though he'd wanted Harold to know how much he appreciated the gesture.

* * *

Harold returned from handing off their dinner cart at the door and sat beside John on the bed with his laptop.

"Dinner settling okay?" Harold asked.

John hadn't felt the need to throw up for most of the last few hours, which he counted as a good thing. But it was rather sweet how Harold insisted on looking after him and making sure he was feeling better. It had been too long since anyone had cared this much. Not that he'd ever really deserved this much attention anyway.

"I'm improving steadily."

"Good."

Still feeling tired, John rested his head on Harold's shoulder, watching him hack into the local police department's files, his fingers flying over the keyboard. When his eyes began to hurt from watching the screen, John closed them and listened as Harold explained what he was doing and what he was seeing. Harold's voice was soothing to John's nerves, and lessened his headache a bit.

"It looks like the detective on the case knows what she's doing," Harold informed him. "She seems to have been gathering a lot of evidence against the Pressfields, from their bank accounts to their travel itineraries, and other things."

"So they don't need your help after all?"

"No, they don't."

John raised his head while Harold set the laptop down at the end of the bed and picked up a well worn copy of _The Crystal Cave_. John placed a hand on Harold's shoulder to draw his attention, then ran a thumb over the back of his neck. When Harold turned to him, John brushed his cheek with a forefinger.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispered.

His stomach was full of anxious butterflies threatening to fly away with him if he couldn't rein them in. So far he and Harold had only kissed the once and John was determined to make it better this time, if Harold would let him.

Harold set the book down and John reached for him. Their mouths were brushing together with no rhyme or reason, other than it felt right and John didn't want to let go. Harold's lips were tentative, but softening fast, fusing to his. John cupped the back of Harold's head, running his long fingers up into his short hair. He couldn't stop. Didn't want to. Harold's glasses got bumped askew and John paused a moment to take them off and set them aside. The bags under his eyes were easily visible and John smoothed them out with first one thumb, then the other. Harold was breathing hard. They both were.

John leaned in for another kiss, this one sweet and gentle, then pressed his forehead to Harold's, trying still, to catch his breath. Harold's fingers were trembling as they gently touched John's cheek, then his lips. John held them still. Such a brilliant and wonderful man. His heart swelled at the fact that Harold wasn't dying, that he'd chosen John, was letting his guard down a little, and was allowing him to be this close.

John kissed each of Harold's fingers.

"I want this," Harold whispered.

John did too. Too much. His heart was going a mile a minute. His nerves were exploding. This was... there were no words to describe it. He cupped Harold's face with his left hand. They couldn't go back now. Things had already progressed too far.

He kissed Harold again, their lips slow to part. "It's not always easy for me. What you ask of me goes against everything I've been trained to do, but what I said before will always be true."

Harold covered John's mouth with his, startling him. His lips were gentle and soft, lingering.

"Harold..." John's voice came out hoarse when they pulled away.

Somewhere in the room a phone rang. John shook the fog from his head, and immediately regretted it as his vision went blurry and his headache kicked it up a notch. He groaned.

"What's wrong?" Harold asked, feeling around for his glasses until he'd found them.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just... the concussion symptoms acting up."

When the phone didn't stop ringing, Harold got off the bed to hunt it down.

"It's yours." Harold returned and handed John his phone.

John fumbled with it, thankful that at least the buttons he needed were color coded, so he could determine enough to press the right one.

"Hello?"

"Can. You. Hear. Me?" The Machine!

"Yes!" John moved fast to grab the notepad and pen from the nightstand, blinking furiously to clear his blurry vision.

"You. Are. A. Good. Man. John. Reese."

John paused at The Machine's words, surprised by them, and unsure where it was going.

"Please. Take. Care. Of. Him. Do. Not. Break. His. Heart. Or. I. Will. Have. To. Hurt. You. Quiet. Sierra. Charlie. Police. Lima. Lima. Air. Zulu. Sierra. Quiet. Sierra. Charlie..."

John was so caught up in the Machine's personal warning he nearly missed the code for their new number. He took it down as the Machine repeated it and when he disconnected, he was left staring at Harold, his vision crystal clear and his headache only a dull throb again.

"What's going on? Who was that?"

"We've got a new number." John handed the piece of paper over. "And..." He pulled the laptop over to him. "A chaperone in the room." John looked directly at the camera. "I promise," he said to it, then turned it off and closed the lid.

* * *

A/N: Keep reading for the epilogue! Also, should anyone be interested, the three books The Machine uses for the next number are as follows:

\- Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Caine

\- Police Procedure & Investigation: A Guide For Writers by Lee Lofland

\- Air Plants: The Curious World of Tillandsias by Zenaida Sengo


	10. Epilogue

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 2 (Harold Finch): Epilogue

* * *

 _Harold Finch_

* * *

"You don't have to come with me, if you'd rather stay here," Harold said, as he parked his town car a fair distance from the library. "I won't be long."

"I need to stretch my legs," John said with a yawn.

Harold wasn't going to argue. A restless John wasn't much fun when he wasn't allowed to do anything. And maybe this walk would help John get some sleep later. Overnight John had become grumpy from a lack of proper rest. Only that morning he'd admitted how long it had taken him to fall sleep the previous day as well.

John's hand brushed against his. Their fingers reached for each other, fumbled, then grasped the other's hand. They both paused mid-stride, glanced at each other, and smiled, before continuing on toward the library. John's hand in his felt like coming home to Harold, and helped him relax.

When they approached the back door to the library, Harold let go so he could dig out the key and let them in. John gently pushed him forward into the safety of the stone building while scanning the street for anyone wishing to do them harm. Three seconds later he was stepping in behind Harold and locking the door.

The smell of old books washed over Harold. It felt good to be back. A weight lifted from his shoulders to know the library was still standing, waiting for their return. They'd only been gone less than a week, but even that was too long.

Upstairs, Harold was startled to see Shaw and Root apparently spending time together at the library. They sat in nearby chairs, neither saying anything, holding a book, or attempting to use the computer. He couldn't help but notice Root's badly mis-buttoned shirt and Shaw's missing boot. He wondered if they'd been working a case, then decided he really didn't want to know.

"Harry!" Root jumped to her feet and moved to give him a hug. "It's good to see you again. Where have you and Lurch been, if you don't mind my asking?"

Harold felt his face heating up as he stepped around her to avoid her arms encircling him.

"Ms. Groves," he greeted. "It's good to see you too." He felt like a wooden toy as he spoke to her.

"Oh he minds," Shaw commented. "Harold, John, everything okay? Anything you need us to do?"

"Shaw," John greeted, his voice rough as gravel. "Root."

"Harry, I thought we were friends?"

"Actually, yes," Harold addressed Shaw, pointedly not making eye contact with Root.

To Harold's relief, John took himself to a chair in a corner and pretended to read... oh, he'd actually brought _The Crystal Cave_ with him. He'd seemed to be enjoying it when he'd finally fallen asleep at 3am that morning. The fact that he carried it with him, made Harold's heart warm. "Harold?" Shaw brought him back to the problem at hand.

"Right. Sorry." Out of the corner of his eye he saw John smirk. "We have a new number I need you to look into for me."

"Great. I'm going stir crazy around here without something to do. Who is it? What's their story?"

Harold gave her all the information he'd been able to find that morning.

"Just try not to shoot anyone."

Root scoffed. "We do what the job calls for, Harry. Sometimes it calls for shooting people."

"And what are you two going to be doing?" Shaw asked.

"This case is all yours, Ms. Shaw. If you need help of any kind, please call me, but we have business to tend to elsewhere for awhile."

"What kind of business?" Root asked, her eyebrows raised in interest.

"None of yours," Harold replied. "Mr. Reese? Shall we go?"

John closed his book, and got to his feet, not in any kind of a hurry, and followed Harold back outside.

"You're not going to tell them what happened?" John asked.

"Our relationship is none of their business," Harold huffed. He then smiled at John. "I just want to keep this between us for awhile. I don't want to spoil it."

John slipped his hand into Harold's again and held it all the way back to the town car.

* * *

A/N: Just a reminder that reviews are most welcome, especially if you got this far and enjoyed reading my work.

But wait... there's more! For the low, low price of free, if you've already read this lovely fanfic, you also get one deleted scene with it! Just scroll to the next "chapter" to read it. I hope you like it.

This November for National Novel Writing Month, I will be working on a sort of sequel to Mr. & Mr. Rinch called "Domestic Intimacy". It will be a collection of shorts set "between the numbers", some romantic, some not, that happen after this story. Some of them will follow specific episodes, though most do not. They won't get posted until December, at the very earliest, so keep an eye out for them!


	11. Deleted Scene

Person of Interest: Mr. & Mr. Rinch: Part 2 (Harold Finch): Deleted Scene

* * *

A/N: This is a deleted scene that didn't make the cut into the final version of the story. That said, I still think it's funny, so I thought I would share it here. The setting is a group therapy session. Note that this is unedited.

* * *

"You know what else bothers me?" Harold asked, really getting into the act.

"What?" Chris asked.

"The guns."

"The guns?" John's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yes. The guns. In our house. All 208 of them!"

"You counted? But there aren't..."

"Weapons. You've got too many of them and you know I don't like them, yet you keep buying more!"

It was easy to get into this argument. If it hadn't been for their jobs, he would have insisted John not keep his arsenal at the library. As it was, Harold knew every hiding spot John had, and did his best to avoid them, unless a new number made that impossible. Like the current number, which had lead him to discover John's second sniper riffle hidden in the stacks.

"It's time to downsize your collection. Including..." Here, Harold paused for dramatic effect.

"No. No, Harold. Not... Not the grenade launcher!"

"It's got to go, John. I found it while I was packing... what if Leila were to stumble on it someday?"

John looked around the room. All faces were on him. Riveted.

"I have a military background," he defended himself. "I like weapons."

"Hey," one of the other guys spoke up. "I'm ex-Army. I get you. But dude, even I only have 97. And I keep them locked up. Invest in some gun cabinets. You'll be fine. Gotta make the wife happy, you know? Er... significant other."


End file.
